Immigrants
We do not shoot the brides -
although they are pests, and spread
like puffs of ash
across our village greens.
Because they're not indigenous,
we eat them, scraping
their scrawn for the hooting pot.
Mmm. Mmm. They're game.
Red ones are bob apples,
hopscotch, their saxophone tails
chuckling us under the chin.
Their nuts are proper
like maids at maypole,
or the bishop's churns,
or the jangle of the testicles
on ten morris men.
This lot is foreign,
skimping on our lingo,
unChristian, weren't
introduced until 1800. Bang.