by Nick Gisburne
I’ve bought a bag of magic, potent, fresh,
A bargain, seven shillings for the spell.
I haggled for a leg of devil flesh,
And salty strips of dragon meat as well.
I hate the summer solstice. Give me night.
I never was a creature of the dawn.
No airy fairy hippie sunrise shite,
With drunken druids pissing on my lawn.
I’ve planned a little barbecue instead,
To feed the flowery fuckwits while they wait.
Enlightenment is useless when you’re dead.
The trouble will be worth it, every plate.
No singing in a circle round the stones.
The summer sun will bathe their burning bones.
