Fancy Dress

 Fancy dress

The oligarch’s luxury yacht set sail,

And the orthodox bishop, reading psalms,

Walked, as the sirens began to wail,

To a fancy dress, in The Nuclear Arms,

Where we were all gathered, out of our heads,

On bootleg vodka and Baltika beer,

Dressed up as extras from War Games and Threads,

Sharing a joint of paranoiac gear,

Eating cold kitty cat, straight from the tin;

Watching Henry Fonda, suitably grim,

Trying and failing to rein the boys in,

As the hapless old Bloggs: Hilda and Jim,

Purchased a whole book of raffle tickets

From a little girl, riddled with rickets.

It was a grand competition, in truth;

We made the best of our last night indeed;

I dressed as Jimmy, my wife dressed as Ruth,

And mum; portraying the woman, who peed,

While staring, transfixed by the mushroom cloud;

There, in the pub’s epicentre stood she,

Under the blinding light, doing us proud;

Like a frightened deer, unable to flee;

Expression, posture and costume unflawed,

And when the judge-bishop, at last appeared,

I all but fell at his feet and implored:

Please let her be first; but as the dust cleared,

The bishop awarded the crowning prize,

To the traffic warden, with cloth-framed eyes.