Trolleys crashing, miniskirts fluttering,
yobbos hanging from dodgy guttering;
children screaming in rage,
over ice cream they crave
like a junkie does a needle.
There’s Ferris the farrier,
wheeling away enough lager
to sink an aircraft carrier.
He’d sooner accuse me
of giving his dogs mange
than offload loose change.
A soul destroying jumble of silver coins
distracts a thief from my kick to his loins.
Endless Helen Keller imitators flock by.
I may as well be talking to a termite tower.
I’m contemplating packing up.
Amused shoppers greet Bling Hippo
and his jowls with hysterical howls.
‘That cancer research fundraiser,
he gets paid’, that bling lugging cretin,
with more chins than my extended family,
utters in a tone normally reserved for
damning the evils of donating microwaves
to infant craving cannibals.
Bling hippo’s mum tries to mollycoddle,
but her incensed son refuses to cease
his venomous garbled twaddle,
until distracted by the ice cream aisle;
no doubt blubber isle will be a while.
As his mother demeans her beautician,
Bling Hippo returns to wish me dead
by the wires of a NAZI electrician.
As he throws an endless tantrum,
I defend his mum’s Botox dealer
by singing an ageing Barbie anthem.
‘That nicotine blonde icon of visual pollution
was a best seller, by the French revolution.’
‘Victorian Ken hasn’t been satisfied,
since she’s been partly mummified’
Bling Hippo’s old bag read my tag and said
‘Rupert you’re boring, ugly and stupid!’
I said ‘you dear are an excitement diuretic,
infinitely worse than experimental surgery
with a six pack of light beer for anesthetic.’
Bling Hippo has the turning circle of a train
but with a little momentum, as I discovered,
his 150kg of lard can cause serious pain.