The Grenfell Tower My Foot Poem by Ejiofor Alisigwe

Would time turn that giant spliff to a home?
A chirping of Weaver birds and Sparrows rise?
A cruel joke on the genteel blue braggadacio
Translating Galloway to Royal Kensington patio
To dilute the renouned neighbourhood bonhomie
While Guy Fawkes lay in waite and Canon fodder
And the gents fled the roost to Cowboys and Indians
A refurbished galore gladdening Cowboys Claddings
And left Grenfell Tower a bonfire of vanities

Is Grenfell Tower builders rabid Druids?
That built effigies for castles into the twilight?
Then bury their heads in the sand of time?
And peeps between their legs to see tomorrow?
An Ace for a Bob or two and a gallow for the rampant immigrant?
And Grenfell Tower a hypodemic needle in Sky arm?

Who then shall bale the Ross-Shire cat?
A gatehouse of Fleet in eerie Summerisle?
Beehives for the contentious immigrant abode
Snoogled close courtly mews and Catalogues
Left the Council no defined choice than divination
And soothe wounded hearts and scorched earth
Three scores and twenty hung out high and dry
And sprinkles of unfortunate citizens on a try
Victims of the burning Wicker Man of death

Wild rivulets burning languid veins in a storm
Who scampered dazed in lugubrious sanatorium
Excited to raid the kindle-fridge like a randy possum
And spewed a tumultuous moronic inferno therefore
From a post-refurb Grenfell Tower claddings
Like an old Hag decorated for nondescript gents
And hid the ugly concrete core in smarmy facade
Left Grenfell Tower standing like a spent prostitue
In a street corner weathered and browbeaten to live
Wham Bam. Thank You, Ma'am

Ejiofor Alisigwe

05/11/2017