There’s a bored baboon who’s wanking on the bonnet of our car
In an empty precinct lined by closed up shops
And there is in his demeanour something telling us, thus far,
There’s no real point in trying to call the cops.
Before he’d started wanking he had shat, & through it squirmed
Foul parasites that grinned & coiled like vipers
And his face did not reveal just what such things might have confirmed
As the baboon ripped off both our windscreen wipers.
An iron collar round his neck had worn a scarlet weal,
Rusty chains thread from it to a distant door
Where a short man's counting money that he stole from an appeal
Celebrities had got up for the poor.
He comes to climax. Christ! The beast's spunk stinks of stale iced buns!
He weeps - the poor thing’s very highly strung.
He’d been dreaming about liberals being hunted down with guns,
Eugenics, vaccines, tax and Toby Young.
Then the baboon bares his yellow fangs & pimps his purple arse
And lifts a leg to copiously pee
In our faces, thankfully protected by the windscreen glass,
And both of us imagine that we’re free.
There’s a bored baboon still wanking on the bonnet of our car.
We stare at him and he stares back at us.
And neither of us thinks that things would not have got this far
If only we had thought to catch the bus.