The Conspiracy Theorist


In hospital I met a bloke
Who plagued me like a bad disease.
Whenever I went for a smoke
He’d rant about conspiracies.
The aliens had landed.
They were living down in Kent.
They’d got themselves re-branded
As the U.S. Government.
With every fresh retelling
The embellishments just grew,
Until he’d started yelling
And his head was turning blue.
I took to midnight wanderings
Through maze-like corridors,
To avoid his rabid ponderings
And obsessed overtures.
I discovered rooms with flashing lights,
And strangeness by the ton.
I started thinking, “Was he right?”
Next morning he was gone.
Perhaps they’d taken him, or worse,
Abducted in the night,
And so I asked the whistling nurse,
“Where’s good old David Ike?”
“He’s gone to have his piles lanced,”
She said and turned his bed.
We both exchanged a knowing glance.
“Let’s hope it hurts,” she said.

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