They gave this to us at school. It’s always been with me. The first time I realised poetry could be cheeky.
Sky Ray Lolly
A toddler on a day out in Herne Bay,
on seeing an ancient, civil-servant-type,
I held my Sky Ray lolly — red, yellow
and green striped, pointed, dripping down between
my legs and walked bandy. My Ma and Pa
(old-fashioned innocents like Rupert Bear’s)
just didn’t notice this and ambled on,
that is, until they saw the old man’s face,
jaw dislocated in surprise. They grabbed
that Martian’s willy from my little hand.
The world still sees me as a nasty kid
usurping maleness. A foul brat to besmacked down by figures of authority.All things most natural in men, in meare vice — having no urge to cook or clean,lacking maternal instincts.
And they would take my pride, my rocket
of ambition, amputate my fun and geld
my laughter, depriving me of colour.
And smirk to see my little lolly melt,
me left with a stick.