Morning prayer

At ten to eight I stoop to fate
and gibber out of bed,
praying for an earthquake,
with many thousands dead.

I listen to the BBC,
hoping for disaster:
a plague of killer rabbits,
or a typhoon near Doncaster.

Slouching down the motorway,
I yearn for total carnage:
a lightning bolt from heaven
or a landslide close to Barnage

‘Each dawn I die’, the poet said,
but what the hell would he know?
He doesn’t drive to Sheffield
for the morning shift at Twemlow’s.


 

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