Rocky Road
I cannot tell the difference
between Rocky Road, tiffin and
the squares of traybake
you chuck at me from your window
when I go out to give the guinea fowl
their breakfast every morning.
Glace cherries, crystallised ginger,
marshmallows and chunks of biscuit.
When you hurl them with such vitriol,
it hurts me babe, it hurts like Hell.
The sting of your sweetmeats,
it hurts me to my core.
And now my keets
are too big for their enclosure.
B.R. 3.3.24
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