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it’s Dickens for dinner, bill
jenakajoffer

you’re only as sick
 1
as the company you keep
 2
and by dint of hard persuasion,
 3
strong ale and bleeding,
 4
your rigid perseverance has led
 5
to their entire disappearance.
 6
 
 
but not with this one, bill.
 7
 
 
he’ll arrive with a fish spawning
 8
from his waistcoat, some hot negus
 9
and a penn’orth of gin,
 10
them chip-tooth tales slurring over
 11
his pheasant-dressed tongue
 12
and before you know it he’s carving you
 13
like a pair of scissors.
 14
 
 
he’ll caudle your stump of meat
 15
in a basin of beef-tea and stir it
 16
with an antler of celery while you fuss
 17
over some two-penny salad,
 18
 
 
and I’ll tell you, I’m no skin
 19
to make skirt with, no treacle tart
 20
hanging from his yolk sac
 21
but them soporific sweetbreads’ll
 22
lull me straight into his Christmas pie.
 23
 
 
he’ll slam-dunk your blood sausage,
 24
wrap you in a cabbage leaf and set you
 25
next to the calf’s head by a roaring fire,
 26
then stick you in a bowl of bishop,
 27
flour your belly, scald you,
 28
wring you out, hose you down—
 29
 
 
no spectator by and London all around us,
 30
a sprig of poems tossed in the pot
 31
and a doughty fist in your asshole—
 32
 
 
nothing savage about it.
 33
chuck-d’s makin’ plumb pudding bill;
 34
it’s what’s for dinner.
 35

14 Nov 17


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(73 more poems by this author)



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