Getting cocky

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.