Dutiful bulls
trample my legs under the dust of the field,
chew on my nose for lack of grass,
mung me hollow for lack of
entertainment,
not tea nor crumpets,
no stopping by to
dilly-dally,
lately.

Televangelist,
eyes me up and down with a camera,
flappers his cross as he blabbers his mouth,
eyes me up and down again once the camera’s on its way,
slobbers his dry tongue upon mine,
violates
my body
and commandments against adultery,
slapping his limpid cock against my buttocks,
finishing the job off
with his cross hangs ‘neath his bowtie.

George Bush, blank fire in his eyes,
tells me about evil-doers
and that I’ll be avenged,
then farts,
chuckles with the cameraman,
some people try to find closure in death,
try to find closure in war,
so I’ll try to find solace in that,
there’ll be more like me cross the seas soon,
to protect these who step on me’s
freedom.