Herding Of Cats
Posted: Fri May 26, 2006 10:26 pm
I have no idea where this lot came from. I continue to blame it on the night...
HERDING OF CATS
Herding cats into the football stadium,
half empty
with gangs of Social Workers
who skreated and breated,
their animated throat-burning,
blood-curdling skrines
at that herd,
as they sploshingly began
hurling, water-filled, pink balloons at the cats,
Was not a good idea.
Squadroons of ill-tempered manx-tailed muggies,
brasted on olde hemp wine, and fired up with a passion
best kept for tin roofs
threw one another
at the rapidly blanching Sociatumpalists,
who tripped in their hundreds,
backing up the crumbling, cronkeeted terraces
of the Stadium.
Seasoned Ticket holders
fared worst,
whitened to the digital equivalent
of minus 3.
Hosepipes were deployed
to no avail.
Poltroons of muggies
scoffed at the audacity,
scorned the mendacity,
of broadcasts by tannoys,
supplied by Walmart.
Sneering through fur,
at a voice electronically enhanced,
while panicing Socios
realised with aplumb
the hosepipes were useless
with no water switched on.
Cats 4 Social Workists 0
Herds can be powered,
managed and armied,
by elitists in scabbie cabals,
but no-one told the muggies.
This tale was told across the shimmering amber embers of a pine fuelled carbon burner, by an actor of renown, who hasn’t looked back since he played the dumping end of a pantomime horse.
I think I may have read a little too much Dylan Thomas. This work is for reading out loud, not reading solely behind the eyes.
HERDING OF CATS
Herding cats into the football stadium,
half empty
with gangs of Social Workers
who skreated and breated,
their animated throat-burning,
blood-curdling skrines
at that herd,
as they sploshingly began
hurling, water-filled, pink balloons at the cats,
Was not a good idea.
Squadroons of ill-tempered manx-tailed muggies,
brasted on olde hemp wine, and fired up with a passion
best kept for tin roofs
threw one another
at the rapidly blanching Sociatumpalists,
who tripped in their hundreds,
backing up the crumbling, cronkeeted terraces
of the Stadium.
Seasoned Ticket holders
fared worst,
whitened to the digital equivalent
of minus 3.
Hosepipes were deployed
to no avail.
Poltroons of muggies
scoffed at the audacity,
scorned the mendacity,
of broadcasts by tannoys,
supplied by Walmart.
Sneering through fur,
at a voice electronically enhanced,
while panicing Socios
realised with aplumb
the hosepipes were useless
with no water switched on.
Cats 4 Social Workists 0
Herds can be powered,
managed and armied,
by elitists in scabbie cabals,
but no-one told the muggies.
This tale was told across the shimmering amber embers of a pine fuelled carbon burner, by an actor of renown, who hasn’t looked back since he played the dumping end of a pantomime horse.
I think I may have read a little too much Dylan Thomas. This work is for reading out loud, not reading solely behind the eyes.