Door To Door

The wretched thing fell to its death
Soggy and crumpled
Forced through gritted brass teeth
Onto the tiles below.
‘What are you peddling then?’
Asked a surly takeaway menu.
‘They don’t need loans you know.’

‘Will you have a little pity?’
Cried the Radio Times.
‘It’s cats and dogs out there.’
The menu scoffed.
‘I didn’t think you’d noticed
Miss Polyethylene Sleeve
Miss Ooh La Di Da.’

‘Oh, don’t get your sundries in a twist’
Muttered the maligned magazine.
‘We’re all stuck here, same as you.’

‘Ignore her,’ said the menu
With a conspiring tone.
‘She’ll be inside come morning
Pride of place, kitchen table
Right next to the phone.
Not all of us were born with a double-page spread of Nigella up our arses.’

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