Artwork by ATM streetart – www.atmstreetart.com
The badger’s grand set, opening
like a tunnel of the Northern Line
only lacking mock-Doric coping;
and the pungent smack of his urine
hitting, an aromatic barrage
not the stench of a pissed-up carriage
somewhere between Morden and Burnt Oak.
He must be an industrious bloke
excavating in the small hours
not unlike some nocturnal poet
hollowing-out, when all is quiet
underneath his ivory towers
making room for good supplies and stores
to keep barren winter from his doors.
