Down from my Daily Mirror foot-hills
to a plain of Guardian-reading mums,
I drag my phantom dark satanic mills –
penance for using the wrong medium.
Up to my eyes in trendiness I bring
my younger son home from school, double quick,
listening to how he couldn’t eat a thing
at lunch because of a bad stomach-ache.
A fib of course. He had nibbled a bit
from his plastic lunch-box – not the plastic,
just the junk. Crisps today. His favourite.
I feel the shame of letting him eat rough.
But worse than that, I too, am a fibber.
I munch the Guardian AND the Mirror.