Vespula Vulgaris

You little…
fucking barbecue bastard.
Faster than the Dukes of Hazzard,
you arrive.

 
You…airborne disease.
You leave me swiping the sky,
viewed from afar as a
drug-induced dance.

 
You drunken wee shitface.
Spoiling the joyous surprise
of an Indian summer,
you zoom.

 
You’re despised.
The opposite of a bee –
irritating, disgracing the reputation
of all those that fly.

 
You stripey little sod.
Even seagulls pour scorn
on your very existence –
‘pointless’ they shriek from the roofs.

 
You dementedly buzz close
to the zip on my shorts,
on purpose of course,
you’ve detected a gap.

 
You’re as welcome as an STI.
Now my craft beer you target,
zig-zagging so close to the froth,
with a swipe of my hand, it’s all gone.

 
You can get to the shops
and buy me another.
You mother, father, uncle fucker.
FLY AWAY FROM THAT BURGER.

 
You, you absolute prick.
Badgering my Aunt Mavis next,
but her manly touch is far from a caress,
leaving you stunned!

 
You look so helpless now –

flat out, legs in the air
on a bed of hop-soaked grass.
I almost feel sorry for…

 
“That’s one of God’s creatures,” she cries.
My hippy cousin Sarah –
do-gooder, must do better,
all jingly bangles and a bamboo sweater.

 
Back to you. You… vitriolic, alcoholic
excuse for a being.
My cat Max sees you squirm
AND GOODNIGHT.

 

Jamie Graham is a Scottish writer and Seinfeld fan on the wrong side of 40. He won a BBC Radio writing competition as a kid and won’t stop going on about it.