em = By Duncan Richardson

Rumour has it

they're closing you down,

Hitler's city

Napoleon's town

but neither wanted this much

from you,

no demon terrifies like friends

who know what's best.

Since Chernobyl's cupolas

let go their onion skins

you scrub your hands raw,

but fumes still make your eyes water

your gums, sore

six years on.

And can't you almost see

around the planet

chefs discreetly scribbling

a new chicken speciality

to tempt the jaded planet?

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