The Boglin.
"Crack a can with patent hiss, and bathe the Boglin's teeth,
Enamel keys, in fizzy liquid, with which they touch-type favourites lists,
Head back, little finger, mouth 'doth grin' and dropped lids,
all dressed up in a super-tunic :0
of Phenylalanine, and a Sunset Yellow bib"
The Ogre.
“Coz I’m no longer feeding the ogre who will club my
grandchild’s bones, I did not google Gaelic or its genesis,
Instead I stared from inner rim of Pilsner,
at the sum of ten centuries - Celtic twins of seven foot,
Goading with creche-glee my lordly lineage
and its murky constitution,
They understood I colonised them,
and thru some devilry forced them,
from before my natal day,
to promenade over white hot lumps of coal,
they hoiked to Tyneside on indentured backs (*in a way),
So us oppressors clustered,
Into choad crystals, formed from Pilsner, white wine, Whiskey ‘Mac’,
And thru eye contact (daggered at the Gemini)
Understood they’d hand ours back to us,
If re-permitted dunking or the rack"