See Johnny run.
See Blair dead.
Good boy Johnny.
Well done Johnny.
(It wouldn’t be right to use the c word
given how often you bandied it round,
but the let-down is mighty when it
comes to the stamps, anniversary
album and beetled brogues).
Mick is invited to a party.
He doesn’t tell his mummy.
She is cross with him.
Mick isn’t given any supper.
He must always obey Mummy.
(A lot of hoo-ha
about a wheel and some
butterflies and a pissed-on wall.
Is there now an ear-marked
Lords loo when nature is a-calling
and you spend twenty pounds?)
Nick is happy in the bath.
He always wears his jeans.
Nick is ever so clean.
Good boy Nick.
(If you whimpered
about the water,
you had the grace to stay schtum
and not attend an
evening talk show with Robert Runcie
and Rod Hull).
Johnny is English.
His parents are from Ireland.
Fela never ran.
Well… done Johnny.
(Am a Seventies baby
who was aware of the
kickings and the
slashings, not the
killings though. You
weren’t the correct colour).
I hate Johnny.
He let us down.
Go away Johnny.
Go away Mick.
