Tuesday, 29 April 2014

'Menu' by G F Compton


At first he seems asleep,
But he’s not. Oh no he’s not
Metal-pins in his feet
Make him walk slow that’s what he’s got.

Looks like a seal
He lollops on his sand-desk
Spitting out pieces of puffin
Club him to death the pest
Wearing someone’s socks
He visitates a caff
Asking menus menus
They tell him to NAFF OFF.

Laughing up his sleeve
The moon shines in his bed-sit
Security in his four walls
His potted plants fed horse-s
Robert Robot automatic man
When will he try and understand
Acting dumb in antique pants
Loudy-voiced and file-rack antic
Stomp along you’re so pedantic
Peeing your own pants
Robert Robot in a void
Living on Fen-asteroid
Sneaking round somebody
You suddenly appear
With snippets of information
And then you disappear
I’ll kick you up the arse
And take away your germ-wheat
Lock you in a big cage with signs
Saying ‘Don’t Feed Sweets’

Mr G F Compton

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