If you’ve ever wondered who
Would win in a fight
Between a sulphur-crested cockatoo
And a trio of Bratz dolls,
I could tell you.
On the roof
Are three mini macabre mannequins
With tatty clothes and tangled hair
Tossed there by the girls next door
Who find it hard to differentiate
Between torture and play;
Sugar and spice.
The cockatoo attacks;
It holds the dolls with a gripping claw,
Gouges their vacuous eyes,
And tears off their heads with
Its creatively curved beak.
Darwin’s design never envisaged
Such scenes of savagery.
The pompous image is punctured;
The tarnished attire is tattered;
The big-headed idols are vanquished.
A victory for the sulphur-crested suffragette
As she rips apart the ridiculous facade,
Exposing the ‘reclaim your inner slut’ mantra
As offensive, puerile hokum.
But the bird is a boy
And the violence feeds baser needs.
Some would say they asked for it,
Dressed like that.