They wander thro’ the darken’d street,
Near where the Trust’d Swan does flow.
And mark on every trunk they meet
Chucks of chipness, spews of woe.
In every hurl of every Man,
In every Dickheads cry for beer,
In every voice: in every van,
The mind-fuck’d lachrymal I hear.
How the Traffic-managers cry
Every Shaming sign appalls,
And the witless Drivers sigh
Runs in ash down Hotel walls.
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the meth-ful shit-faced curse
Blasts the fresh-mown verge with beer
And blights the air with rudeness terse.
(With apologies for any inconveinience to Willy Blake.)
The Worst of Perth 
It sounds as if you could do with some time away from suburban insanity, David.
Perhaps a stint with a small town news sheet might be good, or even as a “Country Correspondent” working freelance?
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You might want to give the Indiana Teahouse toilets at Cottesloe a miss this summer too. That can’t be helping.
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Ode on the commode?
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All grist to the mill, Rolly!
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As I stood spewing by a tree,
I saw two ducks but they not me,
Scoffing snails like French gourmets
And cared not for my acid sprays.
How life is like a pair of ducks!
A man is born, he feeds fights
Rides the bucks, til curs-ed by reflux
Neath a peppermint tree
Somewhere in Guildford, heaves destiny.
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SUPERB
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