pome

I am a hypocrite*. After criticising other people's reactions to the big ol' wrestler man's face yesterday, I've spent a lot of today musing on the close resemble between David Cameron's features and a baked potato.

It would be too easy to have a political rant today, so here's a poem I wrote a few weeks ago instead:

Quiet Song, N6

We came.
We grew
From liquorice-coloured earth.
Wind battered.
Kicked, trampled.
Showered by torrents of rain
And (occasionally) dog’s piss.
Our siblings sit indoors.
Smug in front rooms with pianos in.
They don’t know the air
Like we do.
Our lot isn’t easy.
But we make people smile.
And that’s enough.
Nevermind the poetry.
We shot up.
Proud. Vegetable-like.
Quietly flamboyant.
Not delicate.
For all our complaints.
We enjoy being daffodils.

* Someone I know had an aversion to the word 'hypocrite', so when she wanted to describe someone as hypocrital she would announce that they had 'hippo tits.' This really needs to go into the OED, pronto.