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…burning the old sod down

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…burning the old sod down.
Watching the embers crawl
like slow drunken lords
across the blackening field.
A proper British bonfire, that—
whilst I piss on the roses.

And God saved the hedgehog
who mistook my pyre
for some pagan ritual—
Like Sunday roast gone Methodist,
with pamphlets for the tea.

But tonight—tonight, the flames,
lick Parliament’s reflection
in the puddle by the gate,
burning the old sod down,
watching the embers bow.

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