Une Saison En Enfer
Here it is, a corner seat,
A perfect little inglenook:
Here the imps will come to eat
Your sweated blubber. Take a look –
It’s cosy, up a private creek.
Just watch them roast the other cheek.
Welcome to your private niche,
The heated steel beneath your bum –
It’s like a Turkish bath, capiche?
Will cook you into kingdom come.
You had no plan? ’Twas ever thus –
You had some slogans on a bus.
And now, inside your private perch,
The toasting forks begin to glow:
They beat you lightly with a birch?
It’s just to make your bottom glow –
So that, when you are half-afire
Beelzebub may stoke your pyre.
And now, beside your home and hearth,
You start to crisp, your rind a-bubble:
Down here in Brexit’s aftermath,
Did you think there’d be no trouble?
Did you, in your blond ambition,
Neglect the idea of perdition?
So here you swelter, blister, peel –
And hear these little devils cackling.
You only had your brex appeal,
No more. You’re making proper crackling.
Your pot is boiled, your juice is steam.
And now your flesh begins to scream.