for Neil Laurenson
Morrissey is under an iron bridge,
tied to the back of a car.
He has a thorn in his side,
his Walkman has melted,
and his bicycle has a flat tyre.
He is feeling very sick and ill,
throwing his homework on to the fire,
While being criminally vulgar,
he falls out of bed, twice.
Now, he is miserable.
He jumps in front of a flying bullet,
smells the last ten seconds of life,
and knows: it’s over.
Every day is like this,
in the job he never wanted.