As I went down the supermarket aisle
My spastic trolley gave me the shits.
I glared at the ice-cream specials, and thought:
‘Shopping really is the pits.
People are rude and thrust and grasp
Special stuff with their sweaty mitts’.

As I went down the supermarket aisle
Anguished by a snotty screaming child
I stared at the hot chicens, and thought:
‘Even Nelson Mandela would’ve been riled
By this bazaar of sickly light and stains
And fatty emulsions that should be reviled’.

As I went down the supermarket aisle
I realised it had ever been so.
The Samarra market, Chatuchak, Morley:
All places of murder, All Bran, rape, and woe.
Heroes die in the bread section in zombie films,
Their screams illuminated by a neon glow.

As I went down the supermarket aisle
My spirits were lifted by a soothing balm:
400g of Tania in a dusty battered tin.
The thin pale sweetmeats made me feel calm,
And made me reflect on the simple delights:
Like a night of Beam under the palm.



With apologies to Robert Minhinnick.