The Jag is in the driveway
behind the iron gates,
the home was christened “My-Way”
(he who loses hesitates)

All the frills are garish
from The Pillars to The Pool,
the gothic-faux nightmarish
its rendition most uncool.

The topiary is phallic
it’s freudiently flawed,
the colour palette so manic
passing psychopaths applaud.

A bronze eagle guards the doorway
it’s talons dipped in gold,
Munch’s art screams in the hallway
a fucking car-crash to behold.

A kaleidoscope of carnage
a tragedy of taste,
like a turd that can’t be varnished
or a Henry Moore defaced.