Well crack my shell if I'm mistaken,
hammer me if I'm wrong,
fry my flesh, a rich man's bacon,
if I do not belong
here at the roots of the long wet grass
that grows in your garden.
Stripe my back and whip my arse,
you suburban Osama Bin Laden.
But please, no more chemical pellets -
(the ones that melt the slugs)
From their vivid blue I can tell it's
death, while mealybugs
take little notice of these things,
creep peaceful on their way,
and flies, on iridescent wings,
enjoy a summer's day.
I only ask because I crave
an equal chance for me,
rather than an early grave.
But whatever will be, will be.
If you have any comments on this poem, John Bevan would be pleased to hear from you.