Poet's corner

I'm currently busy busy busy, so instead of writing a whole new post for your Friday-afternoon delectation, I thought, what the hell, I'll be blatantly lazy and just reproduce here in its entirety (all of six lines) that poem I was whittling on about the other day. (You can also read it on the Bad Language site, which this week has unveiled a lovely new look if you care to check it out.)

Cracking the flags, by Sarah-Clare Conlon

The crackle of England flags in the stiff wind
The stiff drink drowning England's sorrows
on a cracking-the-flags day.

A damp squib, a squabble, a sticky quagmire.
A drowning in the depths of despair
on a cracking-the-flags day.

I also wrote another World Cup poem this week, lamenting the fact that both teams I was "supporting" are dust. As you can tell, it took me some time to put together, and I think you'll all agree it's quite the masterpiece.

Team dispirit, by Sarah-Clare Conlon

England are pants
But not as pants as France.