He takes a sack of crumpled shirts,

a puzzle

and a gun.

He leaves with wigs and mini skirts

and “Chuzzlewit”

for fun.

 

He’s in a Queue at “Waitrose”,

transformed,

an amazon,

all selfish hair and Dickens prose,

prior signs

of him, all gone.

 

The High Street hums with laundries,

wringing out

their blood-stained cash,

all shiny fronts and tawdry,

there’s pus

beneath the rash.

 

From pedestals of entitlement,

beflagged

and microphoned,

they profess their own enlightenment

with eyes

as cold as stone.

 

A cross becomes a Hakenkreuz,

a blessing

a salute,

the masses in their halls rejoice,

their march

a stamping boot.

 

One thing becomes another,

it sheds

alluring skin,

its prey too late

discovers,

the reality within.

And the pit is full of bodies,

disguises stripped

and gone,

all hope of change,

our folly,

they built their lies upon.