The Litigant

Disclaimer: This is satire. Any resemblance with actual people is purely coincidental 🙂 .

Some people shop for trinkets, climb rocks or fish for sport;

Magoo just likes to polish the doorsteps of the court;

With beady eyes he saunters down to the bobby station,

In hopes of trumped up charges and future litigation.

Imagined crimes, concocted debts, vexation and misfeasance

Make him the bane of local courts, a constant irksome presence;

Whispers travel down the halls, in the face of this affliction:

“Why can’t the arsehole move somewhere outside our jurisdiction?!”

God being in a hurry, procured his face and gait

From a dodgy knock-off merchant, out of the discount crate;

Magoo revisited the stall, to hunt for some cheap gadget,

And bought himself a conscience, on Black Friday, on a budget.

He crawls through every nook and cranny, with eagerness and glee;

To prove you’ve broken one law, he’ll most happily break three.

Fiscals, bless their hearts, mind you, must eat once in a while;

Contrary to urban myths, they don’t live on human bile.

He bought himself a camera, not for trips or brave op-eds;

Instead he crawls and photographs under other people’s beds.

He doesn’t smoke or take a drink; he’s never paid a happy gal;

But his ear gets stuck ( when it’s cold as fuck) to his neighbour’s garage wall.

In the Small Claims Court he walks, spruced up and overzealous,

With a crew of plastic gangsters doing cosplay of “Goodfellas”,

In his Sunday suit he smirks, no patches, tears or creases,

In hopes of getting your one shirt, to later sell for thirty pieces.

He has no fear of karma; no morals do beleaguer

The buzz of future gain in his Machiavellian figure;

The gain at times as shallow as the dreary mental grind

Of those who wouldn’t kiss his nouveau riche behind.

With his love for backbiting and libellous tale,

At great pains could you ever describe him as male;

When called out, he finds it abnormally witty

To throw himself down like the possum for pity.

Would someone thus take it and toss him a Rennie,

Lest he vomits in wails for the loss of a penny;

His honour for change he’d be sullen to barter

If he were half a man, and not merely a quarter.

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