the previous weekly poems
The Vuvuzela's Curse
I used to want to be a merchant sailor
And call the odds in every foreign port;
I used to want to howl through a loudhailer,
Or laugh like a hyena when it's caught.
I used to want to moan as if N. Mailer
Had laid me out inside the boxing ring,
But now I've heard the blasted vuvuzela,
And now I cannot think of anything.
The vuvuzela sounds like bees on uppers;
The vuvuzela sounds like fleas on heat;
The vuvuzela sounds like crowded suppers
Where locusts find there's Weetabix to eat;
The vuvuzela eats the inner lughole,
The vuvuzela croaks like smashed cicadas,
Or scores of bugs appearing up a plughole
Or happy fruitflies raiding Tesco's larders.
Last week I dreamed about the coalition,
And lay awake in dread of Osborne's passions,
I dreamed about the highway to perdition,
Austerity, and terrifying rations.
My hair grew white, my skin grew even paler,
My legs were weak as jelly, knees were knocking,
But now I've heard the vicious vuvuzela,
And nothing else will ever be as shocking.
I could have been the trash inside a trailer.
I could have been attacked by some maracas.
I could have been the curse of Venezuela
(I could have been turned crackers in Caracas).
I could have been harpooned by Pequod's whalers.
I could have suffered tinnitus, St. Vitus,
But no, I have been cursed by vuvuzelas,
And suffer from the worst sort of otitis.
Now every doctor wants a vuvuzela
To shake a patient out of pain or torpor,
Now every local constable or gaoler
Will laugh alike at rich man and at pauper:
They're coming to your venue, mate, and when you
Hear them, you will wish to be entombed:
You'll wish you were an item on their menu.
The vuvuzela calls. Who cares: we're doomed.