Friday, 16 November 2012

Sails of Portsmouth

You stand tall
Waving at passers-by
'All who enter here...'
Glowering over the Municipal Tip
Which spouts forth gases
From the masses
Of left-over
Squashed down
Unwanted dinners,
Smelly nappies
and poop-scooped dollops
That grow into an ever-increasing
'Green' mountain.
I wonder as I pass
Will they build a fountain
And will I one day
Lay upon that grass,
With my grandchildren?
And will they ask me
What that smell is
Long after
The "Sails" have rotted and gone?

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