The giant, bloated corpse of Micky Mouse
has been discovered, finally,
and is being loaded onto a flat-bed truck.
Black arms dangle on the road,
gloved fingers brushing tarmac,
a worker bangs down the tent-like ears
with a spade; the tail, a shrivelled inner-tube,
drags by the truck exhaust. The engine
fires up, and between dusty sycamores
the country lane chokes up with diesel
and the mildewed stink of this decaying mouse.
He’ll be buried in quarry landfill, with all
the other heroes, all the other tragic puppets.
Goodbye Micky! It wasn’t good at all while it lasted.
Soon you’ll be just a name to frighten the
children with. All the men, crammed into the
greasy cabin, wear dust-masks on their faces.
They’re really earning their minimum wage
in this drizzle-fucked day: the first cold drops
begin to piss down on the windscreen.
None of them would express any pity for Micky,
not after the things that happened
when that giant mouse last went on the rampage.
And Christ the stink! The stink of that dead mouse!