The Dungeon

and I thought my retort was so witty and maverick.

I smiled, “Hello, Anna. I’m Alfie, from London.

We must get together and invent a fabric.”

I wasn’t in jocular mood on the Tube though,

that afternoon clattering northwards from Gatwick,

my eyes on an advert depicting a bloodied axe

hovering over a skeletal Catholic.

The Dungeon’s open, so sound the bell!

Here comes the Traitor’s Boat Ride to Hell!

Here it comes! Who said torture wasn’t fun?

Who said a mortuary couldn’t sell?

Bring your wee kiddies and silverhaired auntie

for larks and shenanigans down at the Dungeon!

Come and get manacled to a cell wall

for thirty-five quid and feel just like John Bunyan,

or snigger as women are burnt to a crisp

as you hang in a gibbet without any luncheon

and cackle as Papists get hung, drawn and quartered

along with the bastards who pilfered an onion.

The Dungeon’s open, pack a cream bun,

roll up and see what this country’s done!

Roll up and watch the dead whimper and yell!

Who said that genocide wasn’t fun?

Perhaps they could set up a coconut-shylock

or hitler-skittler, where keen-eyed teenagers

aim balls decorated with toothbrush moustaches

at targets all dressed up as ample-nosed strangers,

perhaps in a couple of decades from now

we’ll be able to pay for the thrills and the dangers

of shuttling along on the ride of a lifetime

through labour camps, furnaces and the gas chambers.