On the death of a flea.

 
 
It was the thoughtless disinterest of it,
the shelling of the pit villages,
the poleaxing of a pregnant women,
at Stonehenge free.
 
I suppose I should say thank you,
for letting us out of the asylum
and giving us an allowance so that we mad,
could be glad,
in some housing association slum,
having sold all the council houses.
 
In the Safe Harbour by Witton cemetery,
brothers and sisters in their clean, mourning pressed shirts,
laughed and joked over a few pints of shared ale.
 
That's the way to do it,
as the sharp beautiful Mrs,
took an order for cashing in chips;
none of them voted Tory.

 
~