Morning charm

Armed only with disarming charm
I face each barmy day
as if I were an army
facing down a vast array
of armed alarming archers
in the garments of their trade.

Armed with harmful marmalade,
arrayed in armazine,
with pharmacies of Marmite
in their ardent magazines,
they march around the armoire
and atop my old armchair,
airy air-drawn arabesques
as if I wasn’t there.

Ancient Athens never saw
armadas quite like that,
but I can charm the arse
off Agamemnon’s cat.

As in all great poems,
we reach the anti-strophee:
— I’m not going anywhere,
until I’ve ‘ad my co-ffee.



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