The child screaming in the block of public toilets
Echoes just like the children loaded into APCs
At the village where Willard meets Kilgore
The toilets much like the Americans care
Seeming to offer help from afar
But demanding their twenty pence worth
In smaller signage once the needy are there
The seagulls hovering above
In the strong stinky waft
Of marijuana smoke
That drifts all along the seafront
Like numerous landing flares
Are more than reminiscent of
Death From Above Air Cav
Especially if you have chips
While further down the beach
Beyond the lumbering beasts of burden
Sacrificed to the god of Donkey Rides
There are many signs saying
Never go out in the mud
Though the ones here don’t add
Unless you’re prepared to go all the way
As the tourist board wouldn’t allow it
Due to the bad press
But the implication is there nonetheless
Then there’s the pier
Where another charge is administered
If one should want to walk to its end
In hope of finding Kurtz there
And one may indeed think they have
What with all the garish lights and noises
Assaulting the senses
The little slots everywhere
Begging you to slip a shiny coin in
Or dull
It doesn’t really care
So long as it’s followed by another
So thanks to that fee upon entry
The coin slipper becomes
The person who pays to pay
Need I say more?
Oh yeah:
The horror . . . the horror

With thanks to JKS for use of the header image.

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