The Slobamite

Creeping in the doldrums of do-do and drudgery it assumes its watch on the world through wrong end of the telescope.

Curtain lifting, forever preserving the distant image to tell to friends that do not exist.

Ever consuming, never producing, simply existing on packets of crisps.

Docile, dwelling deep in the damage. Dark dank worlds of that stick of piss.

If millions it had, it would be deemed as eccentric; an obsessive back-bencher protected from the mob.

But, alas, it is without title or deed, hounded in shadows hunted by Greed.

Greed wants its headlines and its pound of flesh, parading its difference to any who defend.

To them it must sit in darkened abodes convulsing on day time TV and devouring their own souls.

So the 'clean-white' are in judgement, protecting through fear whilst the nurtured ever tortured is still with its tears.

Creeping in the doldrums of do-do and drudgery it reassumes its watch on the world through wrong end of the telescope.

Curtain lifting, forever preserving the distant image to tell to friends that it does not possess.

June 2008