My idol

My idol is a bright blue cone of slime
riding the destiny of a small girl's soup
and trooping the colour in a London Parade
gay as a marshmallow
and shallow as the dust on unwashed underpants.
Scantily clad,
although mad as an eagle
taking flight from the supermarket
on Sunday afternoon,
making old ladies swoon
and falter
as they adjust their halter neck turtles
and squirting ooze
into a fury
and waiting for the jury
to reach its verdict
over mis-fitting light bulbs
and tonnes of butter
in a greasy whorehouse
with mousy inhabitants
throwing small tittering glances
at the outside of the rundown mad-house
and down-at-heel puddings for naughty strangers
putting your life in danger
by taking a force-fed morsel
from the spring of eternal strife.