David Seymour’s Not Fancy

A poem about how much David Seymour hates poetry, loves racism, and isn’t at all fancy

David Seymour is frightened of poetry,
doesn’t understand it — loves free speech
unless it’s calling him and his drunk uncles
racist. Which they are. (White people hate
being called racists — possibly more

than they hate brown people). David Seymour
is actively weaponising his empathetic
black hole. He is the void. Poetry made it in,
but refused to tickle his fancy.
Mostly because there’s nothing there.