Cousin Bill at the Windmill
by Damon Moore
Lowered in the well of his fifth pint,
Cousin Bill was cocked,
Crusading against dangerous personality types
Who never got over themselves
Sporting a furry jumper,
Nut-brown hair, dead give-aways,
Checking my feet, he glanced under the table,
Withdrew a head, said
‘Yup. You must be. If a hobbit wore shoes
They would look like those’.
In a venal mood
Asked had I ever used computers, worse.
It’s Friday, so blokes in pubs
Eating shit all week
Want others to, can’t help their scorn.
Even anti-hunt they hunt,
Renewed by whimpering and lust,
Back to a little copse, us
Our unconventional family earth.