Drinking Guinness from a wine glass
I watch the beetle on his back
rocking to and fro, frantically jerking his legs.

I imagine his voice, squeaky,
a balloon poodle stretched at the end
and spiked with a shot of helium
“help me, help me!  Please I have grubs I should feed”.
I throw out a laugh like a Hammer House villain,
staggering from the sofa I am Nosferatu,
teeth bared in ominous intention,
spilling sticky black froth as I ****-eye my glass.

Wouldn’t it be good to stick a pin through his middle?
Keep him in a glass box?  Whip him out at dinner parties
as a curio example of helplessness,
“yes!  Look how he wriggles.  Do try the stilton”.

Suddenly I’m aware that I wasn’t laughing.