The preacher
you know that costive overreacher
the mate of biblebashing lechers
says the Twelfth will be the settling
time then reaches
for his blackthorn
and marches to the barricade
- no more
flicks this time of the Orange Card
- they're in a tribal huff
it is a standoff

I listen to the radio
I read the papers
but how this caper
will end no one knows
only the word settle
its clanky its metallic
even archaic sound
hits the ear
like listening to a battered kettle
or a tin can
being kicked across a patch
of rocky ground
or concrete walkway -
should we cut an eyepatch
for the pirate preacher
then snap his stick?
he claims this patch of ground's
his tribe's alone
and through a megaphone
he gulders with a deep thick
ululating wheezing sound
that strains like Ulster
in a bulging holster
that bible uniform
pressed by what his father stuck
to - now watch the British state
as with fairness and no hate
it grasps the nettle
and says - walk? no way