I got pickled by a Polish man
Who gaslit me as rain
Spitting peanuts on my puzzled face
Before showering shit on Spain.
The pubtalk started pitterpatter
I thought I felt a drip or two
Surely from the hanging basket
But then he showed me the tattoo.
He’d been to a medieval fair 
And was keen to see it seen
That he wasn’t for religion 
Beyond worshipping the green;
Hence the tattoo - druidic?
Was where our language crossed. 
In hindsight that may have been naive
As frankly, I was lost.

He worked the conversation round
- Not sure exactly when -
Onto subjects closer to his heart:
About knifing religious men
That’s it! -
    It was how 
        would we 
            kill Jesus now?
I felt wetness slick my hair
Rather than a crucifix
Would we wear electric chairs?
(Why we’d have to kill Christ
If He were to re-re-rise
Was not explained as he pivoted
To rage about Sikh blade size)

We should not have had another
- He spilt half down my back - 
I said it’s cooling, thought cool it now
But was told we’re all under attack.
He says he knows not all are bad
But I don’t think he believed
The names of victims were on his tongue 
He was personally aggrieved:
He spat them forth alongside 
The denominations of the accused
And the downpour really started
The air was soon suffused
With denunciations, calls to arms
- Did I mention he bought a sword?
Sixty quid off London price
For the long, not for the broad - 
And as a fan of Bernard Cornwell 
I picture his mind’s eye play out:
The arrow clouds descend in blood
The Mohammedans in rout
And pagan Polish bakers
Taking back the towns
Lobbing loaves as hand grenades
White bread against the Brown
But no baguettes just iron and steel
Cleaving through the horde
Not ‘our’ Jews and Muslims
But all those from abroad
And as the blood tide rises
Around the island we know’s best
A new bloody inquisition asks
Skąd Pan jest?  

Thankfully, chucking out time 
Cut short my rebuff
And though no real rain fell that night
I foresaw clouds enough.