Every morning, freshly burst explosions
litter my once green and pleasant grass.
This warzone, reeling from each fresh incursion
needs help, we summon Moleman to kick arse.
He sets his traps which leave me feeling guilty,
as morning dawns I creep outside to look.
My foolish wish for death doled out humanely
is scuppered as I witness his rebuke.
He should be wearing tiny elf-made jerkin,
horn-rimmed specs and tweedy green plus-fours;
his fingers, better suited playing Chopin
than subterranean muddy midnight chores,
I stroke his nose, discover caviar eyes…
Oh how I wish we’d made some compromise.