Polyphemian corridors
weeping tarns of mustard.
Hangdog expressions, nightly irking
the sniggering skulduggery of dark.
In lofty martyrdom, self-righteously
keeping patrol of empty schools.
Honeytrapping vandals
of illuminated shop windows,
or, with a slack-necked arc,
hinting at the trespass of parks.
Getting their stationary bulk
in every binge-drinker's way.
Bealing beams on muggers,
hindering their night's work.
Offer nothing to spurned lover's boot,
or a dog's cocked leg.
Groaning only with a bonnet
in the abdomen, or a somnolent bulb.
Blinking then, like a dystocial lamb,
cold, and tired of its naivety.