attila
1997 Club
FALMER POND
Upon approach, the stench of foetid mud.
If, undeterred, you head towards this place
Mosquito clouds fly up into your face:
A vampire squadron, hungry for your blood.
And then you see the rats. Their gimlet eyes
Bore through you, as if sizing up their prey.
But they are full: they have a meal today.
A local dog has just met its demise.
It decomposes while they gnaw its flesh.
Diseased and dying ducks are all around
Choking on the used condoms that they’ve found
Their scab-encrusted feet caught in a mesh
Of rusting supermarket trolleys. Worse!
A host of bats (protected species, these)
Each carrying a different foul disease
Rises on stinking wings to spread a curse
Across the innocent East Sussex sky.
A chill runs down your spine, the message clear.
Abandon hope, all those who enter here:
This is a place where creatures come to die.
Then, from the shadows, awful shapes lurch forth.
Pale, hideous forms, by putrefaction scarred:
With querulous moans of ‘Not In My Back Yard……’
The zombie hordes of Falmer Village North!
And they are joined, in that reeking abyss
By Baker, foul Bellotti’s bastard spawn
And haggard Lewes spectres, pale and drawn:
No Style Council – a Vile Council, this!
But, Mr. Prescott, you are stout of heart.
You knocked that deadly Welsh egg thrower down
And didn’t let the crap canoeist drown.
We knew your courage: you have played your part.
Outstanding Natural Beauty there will be
Next to that awful breeding place for flies.
You gave the word, and we will claim our prize:
A Stadium for the City by the Sea.
ATTILA THE STOCKBROKER
Upon approach, the stench of foetid mud.
If, undeterred, you head towards this place
Mosquito clouds fly up into your face:
A vampire squadron, hungry for your blood.
And then you see the rats. Their gimlet eyes
Bore through you, as if sizing up their prey.
But they are full: they have a meal today.
A local dog has just met its demise.
It decomposes while they gnaw its flesh.
Diseased and dying ducks are all around
Choking on the used condoms that they’ve found
Their scab-encrusted feet caught in a mesh
Of rusting supermarket trolleys. Worse!
A host of bats (protected species, these)
Each carrying a different foul disease
Rises on stinking wings to spread a curse
Across the innocent East Sussex sky.
A chill runs down your spine, the message clear.
Abandon hope, all those who enter here:
This is a place where creatures come to die.
Then, from the shadows, awful shapes lurch forth.
Pale, hideous forms, by putrefaction scarred:
With querulous moans of ‘Not In My Back Yard……’
The zombie hordes of Falmer Village North!
And they are joined, in that reeking abyss
By Baker, foul Bellotti’s bastard spawn
And haggard Lewes spectres, pale and drawn:
No Style Council – a Vile Council, this!
But, Mr. Prescott, you are stout of heart.
You knocked that deadly Welsh egg thrower down
And didn’t let the crap canoeist drown.
We knew your courage: you have played your part.
Outstanding Natural Beauty there will be
Next to that awful breeding place for flies.
You gave the word, and we will claim our prize:
A Stadium for the City by the Sea.
ATTILA THE STOCKBROKER
