after Mr. Eliot
the saprotroph is at the gates;
word-play reforms the acumen
where vim and visa now conflate.
Where vim and visa now conflate
with calls for foreign bursaries,
importuning the Nanny State
to privatise the nursery,
the family at breakfast sit
and over cornflakes, all agree
that every prisoner is fit
for one vocational degree.
The primus inter pares Dad
expostulates hate’s paradigm,
his face obscured in broadsheet text
and news of the insurgent times.
This week, we read, a major brawl
on where to put the fire escape
in Christ’s Sepulchre. The sun, hung low
tests ecumenical restraint.
Nonplussed, his girl updates her blog
with recipes for rum “cocktails”.
The discreet clinic will re-stock
its termination chemicals.
Filial loathing, son to son,
descends, while Mrs Hamilcar
pours tea – her friends look kindly on
her faux-imported samovar.
The bigot marks obitured Lords,
condemns the pun in “new arms race”,
passes the toast with condign words
and shuns the consequent embrace.