Look upon my scent ye mighty and despair

When I walk past
the MCG
between stringybark
and scarred trees
of Yarra Park I’m policed
by yummy mummies
and whitehaired knights
with inbred pedigrees:

I must pick up
the fertilizer that
all her dog biscuits
and table scraps
get squeezed into,
striding down the
more sanitary path
towards the end
of the world with
keep-cup people
whose dogs have names
like ‘Bowie’ and ‘Biscuit’.

Acknowledge well
your Nikes tell
a common and
quaint tale of hell
the moment that
they’re tarnished by
— oh god forbid —
animal shit,

But honestly
while here I sit
beside my dog
reeking of it
I thank the mounties
and their horses
helping her to hide
her scent —
she loves to roll
in excrement,
and I must sigh
of course,
of course,
poo laws don’t count
for a cop’s horse.

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