Your mouth is on the button, ready

to take a shot at anything

you see, that flags up

in the tiny mind held up

by small hands, business like attire,

small orange sun

glowing hot and stare mad cold with bluster

and rhetoric, good for nothing

but column inches and inches and inches,

diminutive boy, slow to realise

that the shit is not in some far off country,

not in a hole created by mortar

or bomb, or bullet, or lie,

but in your own back yard, Commander

and chief; a shithole, just another fancy

word, dressed up, wearing slightly

better clothes, but still no better

than the Cess Pit you

preside over, barker style…White House in fear

roll up, roll up, come one, come all,

see the sh*t ho*e speak.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018