The sheets are dirty.
filthy.
scummy.
they're bright red.
Like the poll maps post-Brexit.
Like the Russian flag.
Like streets of war.
Like a slapped cheek.
Like a harlot's sore.
Or maybe I've spilled Ribena again.
It's a bastard to get the stain out.
YOU ARE READING
Sarcastic Poetry
PoetryThis is a work of satire and absolutely intended to offend. Please consult with a doctor before consumption if you suffer from the following; - RupiKaur Syndrome - FakeDeepitis - PTSD (Pretentious TwatShite Disease) - a general lack of humour
