Brighton Beach

The show begins on the manufactured beach. A foul mouthed cockney chants ‘Hit the Fucker’ Children laugh as Punch hits Judy, little boys copy hitting their siblings, As his Mum slurps on a slush puppy. In the distance, Donkey’s taxi the obese, Down to the English version of Vegas. By the pier a queue forms at the ticket box, To watch the failed celebrity crack old jokes at the pier. Business is good on Brighton Beach. Odd footprints are etched in the sand, From some of the donkey’s only having front hooves. The surly itinerants keep them cool, From the spray of High powered Jet-ski’s. I used to love this place, Now black sandcastles stain children’s hands, Lots of immigrants wolf whistle the pre-pubescent, Who walk wide fingered to pretend parents. As the day ends, The council commissioned cleaners arrive in droves, Sweeping the jettison back in to the bay.