Sloe Gin Fizzle

The frantic goose

on the short end

of the idiot's megaphone

shuffles through her 

primary school stars

and gargles,

I never read the fine print!

Down 

at the business end

an olde buoy bookworm

chews the vellum,

eschews the fat

and grows 

the grass tax.

This ain't like 

the end of World War Two

lady,

it's more like 

the Korean Conflict.

Harm's length 

is a short as the 

footnote's boot

coming at you

like Italy 

knocking Sicily 

for six

only it's gonna be

figures you owe.

Look,

it figures you owe.

The clause of recession

lurks in type as fine 

and tiny 

as a newborn's fingernail.

This new attention

to the details

ain't going down well

with the barnyard.

What the fuck?!

Said the urban

nest egg 

in white t-shirt

and leather sandals

pushing his organ 

grinder miracle

through 

the streak of dreams.

The bank

sold his mortgage

to a magnate

so strong

it sucked the nails

out of his cashmere teepee.

What the hell am I supposed to do??

What's my family supposed to do??

The dry cleaner 

and the finca boss 

pat him on the back 

and tell him 

they understand his frustration

but don't care.

Now take your skinny bitch

and semen sculptures with you 

down to the mission.

You're blocking our sun

and spoiling our 

sloe gin fizz.