The Defence Minister hits the High Street

You know when you just pop to the Co-op
for some milk and oranges
but come out with arms stuffed with olives and feta
and a big bottle of some liqueur
you don’t even like?
 
The defence minister does this all the time.
It is CLASSIC him.
His aides have even installed a special fridge
to help him stash his impulses.
They call it “the fridge of discretion”.
 
One time, he goes to drop some cast-offs
at the charity shop but, of course,
ends up selling some typhoon bombers to the Saudis.
Silly old thing. He’d lose his head if it wasn’t screwed on.
Or his hand.

Nina Parmenter


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Nina Parmenter  would be pleased to hear them