Scottish Sonnet: Grangemouth (for Betty)
Slumped at the keyboard in the afternoon,
I live off-grid and click on a virtual box
to open my otherwise lonesome room
to somewhere where action happens. Now it is the Scots –
my family included and friends who go way back when
I was un-medicated and busy with wee causes and real effects –
who have been screwed by one man who more or less owns them.
So much for social media: only my sister in Stromness
posts a remark on the tragic news, with link
to the story of how a psychopathic monster got what he plotted,
as per usual; knowing the ropes, holding the purse-strings.
It’s colder up there in the North. Controlling the bulk of their fuel is not
without its power-buzz, for the addict on top.
Business as normal for those billionaire freaks, or what?
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