Charver

Aardman, souljaboy, with your guts hanging out,
A plastic doll hanging onto your arm with a swollen belly
Trouble on the homestead,
Pots and pans beating a steady rhythm on your skull,
Whatever, McDonald’s worker.

Sweating over a cold turkey,
Trying to warm it with smoke and dust,
Curled up crying in a shredded box
In your vintage Adidas,
No-one helps.

You wish you’d been kinder,
Wish you’d not ruined your life.
Your son disowns you,
Following his own path to success,
One that you slipped and slid down to the bottom of,
Like the slides you were so fond of calling your own,
Whoops.

But now I’m forced to ask,
“Aiight, mate?





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