I sat; upon; an Asda shelf;
to ponder; is life; purpose?
Or; perhaps; just be; lazy;
for I; would do; no worse,
then; an avaricious grab;
denied; my right; to answers,
as I heard; their garish cheer
from them; impure romancers,
with the beep; at the till,
“bucket slave”; my name,
etched like Jack o’ Lantern,
that’s left out in the rain,
but, just a little while,
I was placed indoors,
as they downed; pre-party drinks
turning into whores,
disrespected ghosts,
aspired; to break some hearts,
and dressed up; to advertise; to
men; who play their parts,
no wholesome homage said,
wanted trick and treat,
where grins were; and are the knives
piercing hope; defeat,
tipsy she-cat clutched me,
along with dizzy witches,
by the smell; of punchbowl breath
they could end up in ditches,
flippantly; they staggered out;
like pendulum; I swayed,
making friends with lamppost,
to take away some shade, but then
I saw a hoodie,
representing future,
egging all the windows
thus; him; prospective shooter,
then the obvious happened,
wolf whistles; witches hunted,
and the she-cat; taken too;
hence; I was left; so shunted,
to which; my contemplation,
returned; to me; in gutter,
should; I be; a plastic king;
or should; I never splutter?
Regardless of response,
my question; no one took it,
so; my sad; reality is
echo; in sweet bucket!