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Bo-ggart - A Poem

Once it’s settled in, you won’t get it out;

There’s a Boggart inside your kitchen,

With his bloated blue skin and upturned snout,

His is not a bog-standard bewitching.

The bed he sleeps in is of newspaper pages,

A double duvet: the Mail and the Sun;

He reads your bills and he syphons your wages,

Buys you scratch cards, takes what little you won.

He has no heart, he plays a cruel game,

As he drinks from your pipes by the litre;

He’s turning your milk sour, leaving dogs lame,

And he’s fiddling with your ‘leccy meter.

Single mum found a Boggart at number 8;

‘Followed me home from the food bank,’ she said.

He took the spare room, snatched food from their plates,

As her lads share one school bag and bed.

It’s said naming Boggarts can bring you bad luck

But to face demons, you must give them a name.

They’re in in every town, if you have a close look,

They’re called Poverty, Ignorance and Shame.


James Lawton (he/him) is a father to a toddler, partner to a Scouser, English teacher, and part-time poet. James grew up in one armpit of the northern England (Oldham) and he currently lives in another (Mossley). His favourite biscuit is a chocolate Hobnob.

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