Elegy
to Nigel Farage
We
saw you
and
we hoped
you
were a mirage
a
trick of the light
the
worst of human nature
given
momentary substance
by
the sunshine
that
warped itself around
curls
of beer sweat
rising
from the tattooed shoulders
of
a fat, shaven-headed man
with
no discernible neck,
hunched
over his
Wednesday
morning pint
in
the concrete beer garden
of
a pub with a flat roof,
home
to a roving Rottweiler
named
'Tosser' by its owners.
Batted
back and forth
between
the narrow horizon line
of
the bar
and
the border fortification
of
a listing cement wall
about
to snap off
from
its foundations
Where
the old sagas
have
been bartered
away
piecemeal,
diminished
to watered-down
skirmishes
between
rival
football firms
and
the Polish deli opposite
is
feared as
the
vanguard of some
encroaching
army.
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