F***k Glastonbury

A spell:
I conjure droplets of mud
In the collective ear canals
Of those who bop to Bassey
just so they can tell mum
that Glasto wasn't all pills,
glow-sticks and so-so nut burgers.

I incantate thread veins on the thighs
Of PR girls in cut-offs and Barbers
getting all Mossed up
and hand jobbing a bearded no-one
because they think
he's Michael Eavis and
he would like that.

I pour scorn down the toilet
That branded my thigh, 3 years gone
Dash it in the moon eyes
Of 70 year old nu-ravers
Spit in the t.v's eye
for filming such things
Then go to a gig in Worthing.