Disenfranchisement and fear,
it’s a happy new year until you wake
on the first with a thirst you can’t
slake and a banging in your head
which could be the old year that is
dead, but won’t die.
Should not have gone boozin’
you should have stayed in
what blessings you had,
but you did and got drunk
fell into the trap
of the rose-tinted glasses that
obscure all the crap.
There used to be fairies at the bottom of the garden until they sold off the plot to allow for the by-pass, alas fairies no more,
they flew off to Zanzibar or maybe to Ecuador, there’s no more magic left in the pot, the warring political parties have taken the lot.
I worked new years eve and can hardly believe
that I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed almost as if
I was on the last ship that sailed from the last year that failed all the tests.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.