The Prime Minister eats his breakfast
on his own early morning,
deep in thought. He sips
dark gunner’s tea, he likes
the bitter taste, and bedevils the kidneys
on his plate, tastes their blood, and grits
the shot between his teeth.
He reads his papers for today;
another war, a tax or two, the rich get richer
helps the status quo, he thinks.
He spreads more jam on his second slice of toast.
On the mantelpiece, Cupid takes aim
from the clock with a bow and arrow,
and shoots him through the heart
at six o’clock, exactly.
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