There’s this chinese guy won’t use the northern gate because he hates his boss and his own wife at home is a pain.

He moans all day like a shabby door in a shabby wall creaking in the wind. This is about 500 BC so the telephones weren’t working.

He is at the end of his tether. He keeps bewailing the lack of a sound reason to actually speak. ‘So why talk?’ But he bangs on using images of heaps of broken brick, prison, and  rain-based cramp.

I can’t stand this guy, and don’t like the poem. I’d like it better if he actually did something instead of whining.

I might make up an end section where he gets drunk in the Shield and Dagger on the Dundry Road, and falls into a ditch at the back of Asda on Oatlands Avenue, and is rescued by a young man who works on the meat counter.

Surely he deserves a break? Where else can we praise those who wield the blooded cleaver?