Threads of Awen

My Gran was arrested again today.

Protesting above Lewis's doorway,

she'd given Dickie Lewis a hat and scarf,

then sewed boxer shorts on his lower half.

'I only want to hide his shame.' She stressed,

'It's not a crime to be properly dressed.'

It was also the day Gran was due to appear

in court, for similar offences over the year.

Despite her ripe old age of ninety three,

the judge, who had a masters in art history,

deplored her acts of defacing arty stuff,

then telling the jury enough was enough

saw fit to impose a wide exclusion zone.

This meant she'd to leave her city nursing home.

They found a place for her near Blundellsands.

Relieved to see her go, the staff lent hands

to quickly help her pack and put her on the bus.

She spent the journey wondering, why the fuss?

All she'd done was save the human race,

from having male nudity shoved in their face.

Admittedly she had added to her crimes

by pinching undies from people's washing lines.

And the breaking in and trespass charge

was probably just, but still very harsh.

After the journey had passed Waterloo

she looked out the window, to take in the view.

Her eyes lit up with pleasure, her smile grew wide.

Tingles ran through her with the sight she'd spied.

Gran sat bolt upright, rubbed her hands with glee;

a line of naked men, all looking out to sea.