This is me holding a voodoo doll.
This is me waving the doll over the hob.
This is me being silly, doll down my pants,
shrugging like a nineties sitcom doofus.
This is also me, going a bit mad, in the garden.
Ha-ha… Look at the sky! Weird isn’t it?
That’s my dear old mum, bless her, screaming.
Without her my daughter wouldn’t have nice clothes.
There’s dad, half cut, staring at a black cloth.
We never came to blows and I’m proud of that.
They’re always asking what happened, oh
what happened, son, what happened?
The voodoo doll is not meant to represent
anyone in particular, although I’m sure
you’re sharp enough to notice it bears
a striking resemblance to the snake man
who rattles beside my wife and sells
her telly for dope; who sometimes tells
my daughter to wipe herself on a towel
because they can’t afford…
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