There's this mong, who I see,
spawned from a best before egg.
And he vocalises like a yeti.
There I am, one hand on my trolley,
my finger on my cheek,
hips thrust to the left,
weighing up the merits of crumpets versus pikelets;
'Oh sorry'... *move the trolley...
'Or should I buy muffins?'
And up goes this low frequency noise
not unlike a foghorn.
And I grab potato cakes.
Bloody mong! 'The kids won't eat these.'
And round he comes, trailing his trolley,
his drooping face almost in front of his dragging body:
knees splayed, pigeon toed, iris pinched and closed.
I wonder how much his house is worth?
No that's unfair.
We should judge his privilege to discover his worth.
He's white, he's male, he's vocal.
He's clearly bad.
Just look at him.
He's everything that's wrong.
I bet he doesn't work.
But for all that liberal talk
I rather like him.
*hang on while I put the potato cakes back
and pick up the crumpets that I will eat even if the kids don't*
I like him because...
well just because he has hung to testify
against the testing
of liberal's who would deny him birth
and measure his worth
in terms of the wages of his support worker.
But if I ever catch him
eyeing up the marked-down steak on Friday night...
I'll let him have it.