Every day I watch the tram go past,
that same gormless man
sat at the back, his face pressed to the glass
in a rictus of jollity.
What does he, of all people, have to smile about?
With his colossal pustules
and his eyes like a suicide chair,
his carrier bags of withered cress
and his unwelcome moustache,
the purple ganglia extruding from his throat
and his pronounced cranial frill
like a stegasaurus?
WHAT'S FUNNY ABOUT THAT?
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