HOW SWEET IT IS..

.

 Once every morning,

And once every night,

I unzip the purse and

Take out my digital mini-dracula

I wake it up and

It squeaks,

It’s thirsty for blood.

I stick a needle into my fingertip,

And squeeze out one ruby drop,

from which I give my pocket vampire its drink.

It squeaks again happily ,

reads the sugar

And turns my blood

Into a number

Oh how sweet it is,

to have diabetes.

I am a LOUDMOUTHED PRATT,

I am a LOUDMOUTHED PRATT,

And  I always know what I am talking about.

Poets of today just endlessly drivel  on

About finches in their back gardens

Unless they are so-called wrappers

Spouting urban angst.

But that don’t bother me

Because I can only hear my own BOOMING TONES,

When go out into my

Suburban back garden

AND SHOUT

To drive the finches away.

Stupid little brown birds

Twittering incessantly

Not like proper birds like the crow

Who sits on my chimney stack

Next to the television aerial

And says CAW

Whenever I go out of my front door

Because it  always knows what it is talking about.