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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdzpWfliYM0

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Picture a gate - an old, rusty iron-gate, with

Creaky hinges, spired tips and 

Cobwebs

That drift a little when the wind goes by. 

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At its foot, in a little heap, is an old man

With a polearm, dressed in rags and 

Sipping black liquid from a

Rusted-blue tin cup. 

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He's been employed by the city

To ward off vandals, 

But has been sat there for so long

That he's grown to see himself 

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As mayor - a public servant, 

A permanent fixture.

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There's an outhouse behind the gate

That he uses during his breaks. 

Occasionally, kids will come by 

And ask to use it, but he tells them:

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"Gate closed," 

"Piss off,"

Which is another way 

Of saying:

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"it's mine."

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"Gate-keeping little prick,"

I mumble, as he flourishes me away

And I'm left to stumble into the dark 

To find another spot to relieve myself.

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He follows me with his eyes.

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"That's mine, too!" He croaks.

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I'm ten meters down the fence

With my unit in my hands

Just trying to get the poison out,

Fantasizing about where on his person 

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I could aim.

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I shift two more meters.

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"NOT THERE Either!"

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Little f****r thinks he owns relief,

And I picture us both 

Tugging war 

On either end of my Johnson

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Fighting over who has a right 

      to piss where.

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A pissing match, I think that's called,

And so I empty upon his fence 

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for spite.

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