Klaus capers about the waterbed like a monkey on elastic,
guffing in his niece's ear as she dozes off,
slapping his young nephew round the chops
and crowing the theme to Thundercats
until both children are crying.
He plays the spoons and yodels
till the veins stand out on his brow.
He flings open the wardrobe, shrieking:
'Out, you bastards! I'll touch you up
with a stanley knife! I'll spell your wives' names
with armpit farts!' thrashing at cagoules,
hockey sticks, a heap of shoeboxes.