At half ten in the morning
I watch Miss Willoughby’s lick-me legs
dash behind a desk,
I watch Miss Willoughby’s bite-me lips
read out rubbish
as children chant and embolden
grinning buffoons grasping buckets
of syrup and custard and cream.
I watch Miss Willoughby’s kiss-me face
get coated with custard,
Miss Willoughby’s tie-me-into-pigtails hair
transform into a syrupy mishmash,
Miss Willoughby’s bury-your-face-in-me breasts
glisten and bounce in a gulf of cream.
“Good old-fashioned kids’ entertainment,
honest harmless fun,” I think to myself,
flushing the toilet.
