It should have stopped at one for sorrow.
In singular thuggery your black, dead-eye
Malevolence blues the hedge.
Even the cat takes a care.
Like dinner-suited Bullingdon bullies
You go mob-handed, garrulous
In crombies and spats and loiter, friendless
Like hunched-shouldered henchmen.
Each feather of yours a death medal
Tally for untold victims.
When you feast the flies weave
A gauze of noise around your table.
Opportunist hedge-found scavengers,
Picking the best from others misfortune.
The charnel houses of the gutter
Encourage your rank kerb-crawl.
When opportunity doesn’t knock
You resort to dim-witted thievery,
Banking silver and gold from
The Christening stash.
Then in an aviary made by a boy
An imprinted fledgling sits pied
on a bare, bleached, broken branch
Above egg shells and crap.
You could have been the skull
And bones of Edward Teach.
Squawking impotence, the
Innocent spawn of war criminals.