I’ll tell of a time when,

in the roguish months of the dirtiest year,

Clifford Claxx took his pale face

to the aghast mirror

and had a good gawp,

ah, and it was horrible.

What a mean visage was there! –

wolfish, cruel and lecherous.

“What’s to be done?” thought Clifford Claxx.

Outside his window

the flaxen populace pulsed on.

A dismal man listened

to the most dismally stereotyped, piped song.

A tiny child sucked her hands

and got a very good dose of lead fall-out.

A trout turned up on its belly

in the stream, signifying liver cancer.

“What’s to be done?” thought Clifford Claxx.

Over the way,

where it was all not happening,

Frederick Patty-Pott happened to see

Clifford Claxx getting on his (Frederick’s ) spiffing new motor-bike

and roaring off down the road.

Frederick Patty-Pott, not quick

on the uptake, scratched his long head.

“Urrrgggh?” he thought,

then gave up.

Meanwhile, Clifford Claxx

was trying to do a ton

like a right good ‘un but only succeeded

in disturbing the local refuse-collector

who was having a quiet kip

in one of the council’s cleaner dust-shoots.

“You…..!” he screeched, disturbed,

to Clifford Claxx who waved a dismal hand.

The bright sun clapped its eye shut

on Clifford Claxx who went under

while Frederick Patty-Pott was the subject

of a sociological investigation which killed him.

The bottle where we do our daily round is huge.

It’s full of poison, vilification, and disease.

The tunnel-funnel is huge where we begin our gurgle-down,

and now, in our perverted circus, we repress our clown.


What do you think?

Written by Jonathan Finch