327... Poem by Aleksandra Szymanska

Is my phone ringing or is it my brain,
and what is the clicking around my ears?
Bolt's on the sky but there's no rain,
a madman's calling is all I can hear...

Hello! Your 'highness'! What a scandal!
I feel there's something to explain!
I'm sorry, I must have stepped on your sandal -
I have confused it with your brain...

This is how low your face has fallen -
you've lost it in the dust 'neath your shoes...
Tell me: what are you chasing, what have you stolen?
I hope not the waft of my scarf - I'm confused...

You're the contractor - a schizophrenia 'king'...
How many lives have you claimed?
Tupolev had landed without its wing!
How many berets need to feed your fame?

300 prostitutes have worn my clean clothes
to tell others 'who I really am'...
And a pimp like you has traded my thoughts
on 'submarine' and other waves...

If I could create a layout for my verses
it would present just a hog...
The champing by your manger is dispersing
with bad smell's release - fluctuosis smog...


P.S. What was the name of Holy Father in 1984?
Your drugs and alcohol have wiped it away...
You were the vicar - I didn't know!
Kids got paid £327, not your 300 way...

Please do not break into my tiny bedsit and destroy my clothes...