The Social Insect
To ‘Cabaret’ and high-noon lustre.
Because my heartbreaker’s in Wormwood Scrubs
there’s only a quincunx of bonhomie
under pink and gay bedclothes.
Sunday hallelujahs go to-and-fro like this.
But Anthony’s remembering is blank as a sheet.
he has no jot of a fortnight before,
when with polyrhythms of devilry
we’d quizzed-up our vice –
his thinking was a melody then: bait little H.
to a guzzling of Whiskers for breakfast
(9 out of 10 cats prefer it).
Who’s an appetite for pate on toast?
Each and every mother’s son?
I’m self-denying, a blot
of splendid jam for me.
Chomp, chomp my kitties, have your fill,
for decadence need a fiendish host.