Slow Acting Poison

All hail! Ye Heroes of besmirchèd skin,

Festooned with all thy markings erudite!

Recalcitrant and wayward types unite

Behind the foetid artwork of The Pin.

Hurrah! For all thy scribblings sentimental:

The children’s names so lovingly misspelt;

The Chinese word for “TWAT” across your pelt;

The daubings mixing kitsch with elemental.

Rest not until your dermises are hidden,

Your dignity abraded by these scars.

You’re priceless, like a mass-produced Ming Vase;

Your body now a disconcerting midden.

(And when you’re done with inking all your skin,

The Ironmonger’s punctures can begin…)

Oh, Rubbish Choir!

Oh, Hark! Oh, Hark! We hear The Rubbish Choir!

The words are indistinct. The singing? Dire.

Oh, Hush! And Shush! The Rubbish Choir is singing.

Discordance and disharmony they’re bringing.

Oh, Choir! Oh, Choir! So natural, sharp and flat,

As musical as next-door neighbour’s cat.

Some think they’re rather sweet, some think they’re cute,

But I just think they’re better when they’re mute.