SOLAR PANELS

Solar panels meet regularly to discuss the sun.
Panel beaters read about wife beaters in The Sun.
A forum that was all for them was a form of abuse,
Substance abuse was no excuse as there was no substance to the rumours.
Panel beaters unfairly linked to domestic violence display ill humours.
Mind you ‘panel beaters’ sounds somewhat brutal,
But requests to beat their wives would meet with their refusal.
The sun was beating down on a panel beater’s head,
Sun burnt; he burnt a copy of The Sun for fun,
Before realising said paper could have shielded his skin.
He tried excusing his stupidity but his excuses wore thin,
His alcoholic mother had ruined herself with gin,
Which is referred to as 'mother’s ruin', when did this begin?
He wrote a letter to The Sun to ask this very question,
He received no reply, no hint and no suggestion.
He suggested to his wife they start a whole new life,
By carving his ideas in her skin with a Swiss army knife,
For which he gets detained at Her Majesty’s leisure,
Reports The Sun with undisguised pleasure.
In Broadmoor, unable to go abroad more like he used to,
He reminisces about the things he used to do.
His memory—severely damaged by ECT—plays rose-tinted footage in his head,
He asks his doctors if he can adopt a garden shed,
His days pass dribbling strapped to his bed.
What of his former colleagues, his panel beating chums?
Are they still reading tabloids and scratching their bums?
Who are still living and who are now dead?
Yet thoughts of them never enter his head.
Nor does he wonder why a bumblebee hums?
Or if today is the day when the grim reaper comes…