under this blanket of glass fibre
there to protect the ground from weeds,
those wild and unchosen gifts,
a menace to order
in this, his garden.
Free of green fingers
he knows not much
of nature, life and beauty,
just its cost.
Nature is his enemy
he will force it
into his square-eyed plot,
the one he knows
above his coverlet.
On a grand bench
he sits to listen
when flocks twitter
alarm calls in damp air,
He emulates, badly,
in cauliflowered ears.
But larks and tits,
carelessly broadcast seeds
under chipped bark,
germinating, seeking light.
awaiting his retreat,
to the rickety-rackety bridge.
Without turning of the soil,
beneath their glass ceiling
worms wiggle woefully.
I’m calling a halt to the jive about Trump
I haven’t gone barmy, in need of my bumps
felt, but Yanks know him well for his time on the stump
and STILL put him up there and still primed his pump.
He can’t help his looks (well, apart from that clump
on the top of his bonce that appears like a dump).
And next to Obama he seems like a chump
Not charming nor erudite. More of a grump
With the press he’s been gifted you’d think he would flump
in the back of the bar or a faraway tump.
No, there’s too many trolls; and I’m not one to slump
Let’s just throw him some rope and see if he’ll jump.
Al Barz, Inauguration Day USA.