Sunday, 7 July 2013


Kiftsgate rose up the Wellingtonia tree,
I sometimes wonder if you’re in a nark,
Your long, cruel thorns, have pierced the soft brown bark,
And you’ve scratched my face for everyone to see.
Kiftsgate rose up the giant seqoia tree,
The other day I heard your mean remark,
As your soft pale blooms, iridescent in the dark
Dripped their scented disappointment down on me,
You said I was a short arse and a fatty,
That I would never soar as you have soared,
You said that in all truth I was quite batty,
A small and feeble thing to be ignored,
I went back to the house to get the shears,
Feeling hurt and sad and desolate and low,
Thinking back through all the days and months and years,
When I’d nurtured and encouraged you to grow,
Then I hacked you up into little bits,
And it served you right for getting on my tits.

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