Urban

Urban

3am, they're at it again, a raucous din,
after five nights without a decent night's kip,
I'm done in. I tug on a tee and nip out the back door,
quiet as a harvest mouse. They're sat at the foot of the garden,
bold as brass, a vuvuzela quartet with their hairy arses
ruining my cucumber plants.

They prick up their ears as I gingerly feel
my way down the path, avoiding the fruit
of their nocturnal labours, the swag they've nicked
from the neighbours and scattered all over my lawn.
I'm about to give vent to a stream of invective
when they turn tail and leg it over the wall.

I've had enough, it's time to get tough so I follow one
at a distance, determined to end this fractious coexistence.
When I catch up he's home and unzipping his clothing,
shrugging off his fur, peeling down to nothing.
He stretches his sinews, accepts a massage from the missus,
Sighs 'Fuck' and, relaxing his shoulders, continues.

'It's an Urban Jungle out there;

some fat bloke taking exception to the racket we were makin'
when all we're doin's a night's honest labour,
trying to put sustenance on the cub's table,
scrounging around for the odd bit of food.
S'not like we're on welfare, or findling expenses,
insider dealing or fencing, peddling crack to his kids.
I ain't got you on the game, knocking eight bells
or the stuffing out of the punters or nuffink!
We ain't like that vermin, so what we doing wrong?

I slunk back to my bed with no suitable answer.