The Fool Who Ate The Gruel

by John Togher

Sunday 7th June 2009 5:02 pm

Last night I slept like a log.
Like a log taken from the arse
of the corpse of Marilyn Monroe,
and kept on a satin pillow
in a shiny glass display case
in a museum of Fetish Bazaars.

This morning I awoke and felt like a dog.
I felt like the Greek dog Cerberus,
with three swaying heads,
a serpent’s tail of menace,
a lion’s claw of words,
and a mangled mane of snakes.
I felt like Cerberus, guarding
the Haides Gate to normality.
To say the least I was a little confused.

But after a drink or three I sang like a frog.
I sang like a frog in the great McCartney Choir,
then drowned my sorrows in a puddle of spawn,
singing all the while
I’m just a pawnI’m just a pawn
I’m just a pawn
I’m just a tiny pretty manipulated pawn.

You see, every part of me has its own little door.
I’d love to let you in,
but I’m afraid you wouldn’t like
the holes I keep in my socks
or the false name I stitched
in my underwear.
But, at least a man on a passing horse
wouldn’t look twice my way.

Nevertheless, at the end of the parade
I’ll be the one in the wooden clogs
dancing amongst the pigeons,
dodging the marching Mariachi bands
forever to be acknowledged
as the fool who ate the gruel.

For those asking about it the other night at the now 'infamous' slam