Reality Check

They really were ever-so damn polite,
These well-trained sniffer-outers of no-gos,
Those stiff-lip snouters, cold-eyed brain dead Joes;
They sure knew how to dazzle an' delight.

I rushed up sweating, lately in disgrace,
I shoved my ticket, slapped my bag an' ran,
"But not so fast, young sir", the surly sang;
The suave sophisticate just made a face.

"You wanna tell me somethin'?" Burly blabbed.
"Anything to declare?" the Sophist smirked.
"I killed a snail when I was five," I chirped.
"Right, take 'im in," they slimed, and bags were grabbed.

First on the table came the Telegraph.
A perfectly respectable affair,
But then the porno mags lept from their lair,
I reddened slightly, Burly set to laugh.

Next on the slab my slew of smelly cheeses,
Old Burly reeled and carried on his pumping,
But Sophy didn't yeald to paper humping;
He spies the dope, rolls up a joint, and wheezes.

Now Burly's shot, he jerks my shirts and jeans,
I wince a bit as Sophy hits the roof,
Pink knickers and suspenders tell the truth,
I'm not the man they thought I was, it seems.

Sophy floats down to finish off the task;
My booze an' biscuits duly rap the turf,
"The waves you're makin' ain't been made to surf"
He snides and slides the goods into a flask.

"You've got me naked, got me dry," I sigh.
"You're right about that," pink-clad Burly gasps,
While slurry Sophy bleary bottle grasps;
I'll catch you on the 10:15, says I.

The moral of this story is quite clear:
You shouldn't fuck with those who hold the stick,
But if you have to barter with Big Dick,
You've only their stupidity to fear.




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