The Waste-of-space Land

A modernist poem by T B Blogger

The Counts Louse

SEPTEMBER is the cruellest month, forcing
Resignations out of hopeless bureaucrats, mixing
Incompetence and wealth, stirring
Angry cries with crude anger.
Winter kept us hoping, covering
The city in wishful thinking, feeding
Us little people with talks of dismissal.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Harbourside
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the Watershed,
And went on in sunlight, into the Counts Louse,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Bristolian, stamm’ aus Hampshire, echt twat.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-Tory’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Heather,
Heather, hold on tight. And cashed in we did.
On ignorance and stupidity, we got a lot for free.
I read, much of the night, and never go south in Bristol.

(That’s enough modernist poetry – Ed.)

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