A Poem for a Tax-Cutting Chancellor by Antony Owen

Dear George
I was born in the sackcloth of me Ma
weighed like jaundiced bullion and
valued in the eyes of a Lower Stoke girl.

Dear George
The first cut I felt was the cord of me Ma.
Both of us wept for we had the same eyes
where both of us swam in valium waters.

Dear George
I was born as a son from a broken toolmaker
Who used to dream under caged strip-lights
Then clock in for nightshifts and clock out a ghost.

Dear George
I am the proud son who was made in Coventry,
A city who only felt the cut of the Sherbourne
Because we are Cov we are hard and so tender.

Dear George
There are men women born over and over
Who CHOOSE to get cut at downtown dive bars
But live like Kings and Queens in moat damp cul de sacs.

Dear George,
I once watched a bulldog try to fuck a terrier
It got away with it for a while until one day
The terrier walked off limping yet walked off.