Norman and the pig
Norman’s riding his pig again.
Cock-sure in his saddle
of pink leather with gold symbols
to ward off the insane, deter the holy.
“Yee-hah!” he screeches,
spit in his beard, the milky way in his eyes,
stars on his shoes and the pyramid of Giza
modelled in loose sheets from the Guardian
perched on his head, soggy in this rain.
Last week he ran over a small child
staring open-mouthed in wonder.
We shouldn’t let our kids out when he’s abroad;
looking for poor saps to lure to his tower
of sooty gargoyles and blood-soaked buttresses.
He snares them, steals their eyeballs
and sucks them like boiled sweets.