I wake up to it

I wake up to it

Tuneless

Shrill and irritating

Cutting through me

Like a knife

Through butter

I am sliced and diced

Sliding

Every-which-way

Two halves, less whole

Than before the dirge

No peace brokered

Without a fight

I yell

‘Stop that bloody whistling.’

Whoever thought it a good idea

To bring the sheep farm

Into the city

A call of nature

Into the metropolis

Hold them to account

Especially after a night

On the tiles

There should be a law against

Good humour

It makes more sense

Than a window tax

Sitting in the dark

Is less hurtful

On the eyes

After rutting in the dirt

Bare knuckles

Bruised scrapping

For more than pride

Old-timers

Army dreamers

Whistling for their supper

Bully boys

With mean spirits

Who can’t hold a candle

But make money

Collecting debts

Whistling as they work

Jiminy Cricket

Is on my shoulder

Sticking a cane in my ear

If I want it all to end

Maybe

All I have to do

Is whistle