It hadn’t seemed particularly unusual
until he explained the mog bore the title
and probably became an embolism,
shacked up for posterity
on the twenty-sixth floor
with his manic-depressive Goth of an owner
and a neighbourhood of pit-bulls – though
there wasn’t anything particularly unusual
about that: the pit-bulls having mauled each other
and half of the juvenile population of the estate
were allegedly all born-again vegetarians
receiving regular blood transfusions and psychotherapy
care of Jobseekers’ Allowance.
Moss Side had never seen such a fall in benefits claims.
The government celebrated.
The government started breeding pit-bulls
as part of its back-to-work-or-die scheme.
With a bit of luck they’d shift the debt by 2014;
be in the black
with enough spare cash
for ministerial pocket money and a £10 HMV voucher
for every A&E department, as a show of goodwill.
The suture business had never been so good;
the average waiting time now up to 5hr 19 min,
and that was Monday morning.
For Embolism, this was not such good news:
the Goth, for fear of losing his puss to the pit-bulls,
never let him stray beyond the grid of the balcony,
sunlight barred at each and every slit in the stonework,
‘til the mog was forced to raid the bathroom cabinet
a permanent supply of Kitty-Kat on tap
along with homo sapien mood swings
as black as his fur arrangement
being about all he had to look forward to.
Until the day he overdosed.
Contracted a vicious strain of BSC
and committed Hara-kiri on the corner railing.
Not surprisingly the embolism vanished,
as did all the pit-bulls who dined at his expense.
The government mourned.