When you point your finger at The Rabbit
with his finger on the trigger,
(though is that any better?)
watch out for the decoy:
the bottle of Shiraz,
leaking out like plasma –
soaking Balkan grass.
Poor Dock. Poor old fella
with burning rosé cheeks
against a creased linen collar:
struggling with corn bread,
mustard, cheese and peaches.
Help him! Help him clean it up.
Dock and The Rabbit: old and laconic.
Sitting back and basking.
Playing chess and laughing.
But your voice cuts through the shit.
This is what you did, guys. This is what you did.
And suddenly I’m listening:
ears pricking up,
picking up what they did and definitely did not.
Hang on. You did what Dock?
The Rabbit, soft and by his side,
snuffles in his furry skin:
imprinted on The Rabbit’s eyes
– the disconnect of sin.
go for the jugular,
eviscerate their lies
but watch out for the hemlock and the aconite,
watch for the almond: the scented cyanide
and when you go to sleep tonight,
don’t turn out the light.