He said, “Alf, this is Anna, she comes from New York”
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.
