Prayer for the Ragged, Torn and Confused by Colin Dardis

It's feckin' cold in Ireland, Jesus,
the dogs have nowhere to hump
all the rain puddles have mud;
where's a dog got to go
to get a clean drink these days,
with no owners to leave
out bowls of kindness or charity?

All the dogs do now is lick their balls
and wait; at least the free ones are left
alone to do so; Ganymedes, Cai Lun,
Origen and Boston Corbett moan
their loss, despite degrees of self-
infliction, lost in the kennels of
Skopsty, Heaven's Gate and Cybele.

The bitches turn their heads away,
Cerberus-come-woman,
snarling, barking, slobbering
waves of hatred flow freshly
from the River Styx: let them
keep in the dead, if only to
remind the living what lies in wait.

It's feckin' cold in Ireland, Jesus,
what with all these lifeless mutts
fouling their tongues onto the pavements,
cuckolded by their own spirits;
Leopold roams, unfulfilled
by a faithful wife, he masochistic,
she, no sadist to the end.