a poephol in the garden

i've got one in me back garden
he sits in the middle
of the dandelion bed
with a fishing rod
fuck knows why
the nearest pond's
three doors down at number seven

i call him Dudley
there again fuck knows why
a subconcious thing about
draincovers mayhaps

we used to have some really
really deep philosophical talks
did me and Dudley

but all that changed
last wednesday

every morning at six bloody a.m.
this bloody bird
perches its fat grey arse
on Dudley's head
cooing its bloody nuts off
and pooping to its heart's
bloody content
the bastard

i think it's
a gnoming-pigeon
but being thick
i'm not sure
having never really dug archaeology

last wednesday
i thought Dudley
could do with a spruce
seeing as his head were
thickly encrusted with guano
so i took a chisel to him

happens me mate Zach arrived
as i started chipping away
and handed me a zollie
very nice too i ventured
as his noise became muffled
while i painstakingly listened
to the dandelion's rumblings
for water
and the cabbage white's
slurping of the buddleia
as thoughts trundled
ever quietly
over the hills and far away
to a cotton candy comfort
of dandelion fluff
and all things
lovely

when all on a sudden
as slapped in the face
with a large wet cod
found Dudley
with a two inch void
in the top of his bonce
putting an end to our once
philosophical tête-à-têtes

cos his head's now
full of shit