Village Idiot

Dodder capitulates on his bum,
skulks under fence posts
a twitch of Timothy weed prying
apart his massive lips.

A strip of lavatory paper
his golden rule; the
merrie lad bakes ready made
surprises to the jowled response
of his parting brains.

The mastication of shoe laces
on tired leather jerkins akin
to grinding Michelin rubber - his
reedy voice in overbite haste
rounding corners like a club-footed
dog travelling edgewise
from his master's sight.