Who are you?

Who are you?

Who are you?

The howling can be heard from the aisle, right behind,
perforation of prima donna eardrums has begun.

Child sprawling on the floor, red faced, chubby
arms drumming on the floor, Keith Moon style.

What’s wrong with that mother, assumes stiletto lady,
positioning her fish eggs and brie in the trolley,

next to her organic bananas, closely escaped
from Cyclone Yasi, fully embraced

by short term market forces,
but who’s counting lady.

Can you please control your child, she hisses
her exasperation at such an infringement

on her perfect, botoxed life, so smooth
and predictable, furrow free.

The mother growls, showing off his t-shirt
I’m autistic, what’s your excuse!


ps. Best to read while listening to the song (click on the Keith Moon link)