Snide

On Snide

In the London drizzle I hear whispers that
coupde‑faint through the polished corridor,
a sharp‑tipped tongue dangling from lips that scorn—to be proud, not—
but only for the high road, the polite affront in its wake.

A snide remark, a comment wrung tight,
folded in the etiquette of a formal debut,
the divine irony of calling a chap a “giant in thinness”,
spinned as a dim bowled joke within the four‑penny sigh.

The contrarian shouted in a cheek‑full dash,
soiled as gallons of gossip may flood the midnight pub’s glass,
yet the world keeps turning—snide—yet still,
in the tasting of tea, the murmur of the neon lamppost, and the knot of thoughts.

Though snide, the humour is measured, somewhere between cunning and corked,
and who can take a sharpened bar on a trip down the Thames?
For what is snide but the language of the bridges yet unbrought
into the night‑shade of morning, humming to a subtle, measured rhythm?