DOING THE CONGA

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DOING THE CONGA

The cows were in the fields again today,

Lowing softly

As they grazed their lives away.

What thoughts did they possess

As they chewed their grass so sweet;

Did they think about their comrades

That they did daily meet;

Or the colour of their skin

As they passed in the noonday sun;

With their patchwork blankets skin-tight

As they congaed past as one.

OLD MATTRESSES

OLD MATTRESSES

They have raised a highway

Across our valley

And landscaped it

With blocks of windowed concrete.

Beneath, the river strangles itself

With shopping trolleys

And bits of old bicycles

Worn-out mattresses

And smashed-up pallets are everywhere

While a bloated condom

Flutters by on a piece of driftwood.

Painted hoarding-women

With rotating eyes

Compete for attention

With pram-pushing young love,

Their stilettos tap-dancing the hard shoulder

On a clear day

Juggernauts gleam in the sun

And rolled-up tabloids

Tell tall tales about Royalty

Or football….and Sex