Squirrel Quarrel, North Hackney

in the elms above the garden.

Clive and Lenny. At it again

hammer and tongs,

like George Bush and Osama bin Laden.

 

“Oi, Lenny, where the fuck d’you fink

you’re goin’ wi’ that chocolate bar? Pardon

my French, but it belongs to yours truly!”

 

“Shut it, you toerag! I faand it

under the rosebush. This is for me dustbins.”

 

“Under the rosebush? What d’you fink this is,

the bleedin’ Forest of Arden?

Give it back, you slimy tea leaf!”

 

“Sling yer bloody ’ook, you berk! Go on,

piss off back to yer twig.”

 

“This is like when you “faand” that milk carton

be’ind the shed. I was savin’ that

as a new barf.”

 

“Well, I ’ate to dis’earten

yer and everyfing, Clive, but

the only fing you can plumb

is the depfs of stupidity,

you fuckin’ plum. You wanna smarten

up a bit, mate. Use yer loaf

once in a while. Remember that time

you scampered aat in front of that Volkswagen?

Yer lucky not to be braan bread,

mate, scraped off a German jam jar,

yer trouble and strife left on ’er Jack Jones.”

 

“Swallered a dictionary, ’ave yer?

Fluency in fancy jargon

don’t make yer intelligent, mate. Hearken

to you wiv yer lah-di-dah rabbitin’.

What’s next? Recitals of Petrarchan

sonnets wiv yer cheeks full of peanuts

as yer swing frough the green like Tarzan?”

 

“Oh, fuck off, you wanker. Fuck off

back to yer ugly missus. Never mind though, eh?

You can always bash the bishop, pump the parson,

choke the chicken.”

 

“Right, you cunt, that’s it...”

 

And away they flit,

majestically through the foliage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Alfie Shoyger