Attacks of snaxia nervosa are
reported in our kitchen. The fridge,
utterly unhinged, haws
and huffs at the latest outbreak:
Pretending that fleecing a fridge
is merely pelmanism,
that there are mnemonics
knocking about in the nether cavities
of a cold chicken
won't work. The culprits
must graze with scarlatina cheeks
as gracelessly as fat nymphs
paddling a painted lily-pond
with their blubbery palms.
The lock on the larder's been picked
as clean as the carcass
of a whistle: besides,
the family is still throwing up
flat hands of horror.
On the path to the bins, the wrappers
blow like gaffes. Last night
we waited to see
who'd been taking the biscuit. Your story
took some swallowing.