She shuffles as she passes shops along the busy street,

Her gait staccato, lurching, as she drags alternate feet;

A group of young lads giggle and enjoy the sickening treat

And her dad beside her calls her “Little Elf”.

Her hands are clasped together, fingers crooked, white and thin,

A face distorted apeing both a grimace and a grin,

A tongue protruding from her mouth and spittle down her chin

And he loves his daughter more than life itself.

Is she some mutation of her dad’s genetic line

Or golden bearer of a torch who’s christened with a sign -

A child of God he’s singled out to wear His mark divine -

A vessel into which His grace He puts.

She stops to gaze in wonder at the trio of young lads;

She is not wired to recognise the signs of Good and Bad;

A youth calls out to her defying brazenly her dad,

“Fuck off, you fucking spaz – you’re fucking nuts”.