I had a really wacko dream the other night
in which Napoleon, and my old maths teacher
And Lord Voldemort, who I like,
joined forces in a supermarket,
to create an evil army
The battle came down to me fighting
The staff from FB, my old school.
My old maths teacher Mrs. JP, and the Welsh deputy,
Scudded around, two to a trolley,
As my friend Emily called me over.
“Do you now how to operate a-?”
What it was escapes me, but it was a sort
Of gun without bullets, or a sling shot.
“No,” I told her, “but I can damn well try!”
And I was bustled to the front line.
It was made from stainless steel
And sitting in the middle of the last aisle.
The place may have been the local Wm Morrisons.
On the left was the frozen stuff, up to the waist,
And on the right, taller-than-a-man high shelves of tins.
Someone, maybe Kirstie, dumped a whole load of ammo
onto the metal flat bit at the front before the handle,
like on the trolley old ladies use.
I think the small tins were tuna or pilchards-
off came the plastic holding them to the cardboard.
A number cascaded off the edge into the mouth
Of the strange catapult machine.
You pulled back the handle and it caught a tin
And then you let go and watched it fly
Into the chilled savoury snacks counter.
They were coming round the corner from my left.
The light was a little poor but I could still make out
Three trolleys, two teachers in each, led by my old maths torturer.
So I went tin-happy; hitting them, hitting the sausage roll counter behind them
Until I had no tuna left in the loading bay.
“It’s too late!” Emily cried when I shouted
For help reloading, “They’ve won!”
But I was not going to do GCSE Mathematics again.
I grabbed two packets of twelve small tins and fled
Around the corner, down the aisle to the sliced meat counter-
Napoleon and Voldemort and their hordes were there,
I skidded on the plastic floor, dropped my tins,
Crashed into the counter, back first
And before I knew it, I was surrounded.
Silver masks gaped from black holes
And red-blue-white uniforms bulged
The enemy hovered and jeered
I had supported the Death Eaters before then.
Still do, always will.
Why had I eaten all that sherbet before bedtime?
A poem of a dream.