Kevin’s an ‘erbert

Paradoxical tracksuit

nick-me-quick hat

cross-eyed bull terrier

cross-burning chat

his litter face feeds

off the land of the fat.

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

His bird’s Day-Glo face

came with a free trowel

his BlackBerry’s spell-check

has thrown in the towel

he’s like 50 Cent

if you just change a vowel.

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

Is Kevin an ‘erbert?

Do the courts track his anklet?

Are his missus’ tattoos

misspelt in Sanskrit?

Has mum gone to Iceland

in a thong that her nan knit?

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

Kevin’s the sun

to his giro’s ice shelf:

a Diazepam conscience

don’t buy itself.

They don’t hand out donks

on the National Health.

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

He listens to hip hop

but he votes BNP

sees himself through the bent eye

of daytime TV

where twinset gloom-mongers

sour anodyne tea.

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

She’s Bint or Skankflaps

his kids are called Oi

a snot-pickled daughter

and potty-brained boy.

Ten cans and a fumble

per bundle of joy;

what are they?

Little ‘erberts.

Each limp day sucks

like fart-flavoured luck

shoplifting sportswear

whilst dumb-cabbage-struck.

Nature or nurture?

You what? Give a fuck?

What’s Kevin?

He’s an ‘erbert.

Then came the moon-faced,

dunce-baiting measle

TV’s “straight talking”

smug-mouthed git-weasel.

With scrubbed raw contrition,

in stinging submission,

Kev sought salvation

on live television.

He laid frail his truth

in clumsy admission.

But when his dumb stutters

fell on deaf ears

and his awkward insides

were smothered in jeers

he spat his best venom

to dilute the tears.

His whole self was choked

in a sea of derision

as the heckling necks

built a fork-worded prison

and the hypocrites squawked

like a crows inquisition.

What were they?

Erbert’s, the lot of ‘em.

There is innocence born

into each hefty moment

All time and all things

are its fated opponents

The lesser of us

hear it die, through turned backs

then kick it for failing

and mock when it cracks.

Fifteen shit-munchers

in one pimped-up Nova

not one of ‘em eighteen

not one of ‘em sober.

Nihilistic banter

they think it’s all over.

They’re probably right.

Bloody ‘erberts.

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