You wade into the fancy dress party
made up like a lumberjack and cackling your philosophy,
which seems to be one of
'peace be upon he who jerks his way through strife'
punctuating the end of every sentence
with a jab of the prod into someone's ribs
and a shot of Ouzo,
'Ha har!' your brazen laughter
masking the zap,
the host dropping a dish of sausage rolls
when you step up behind him
and aim one right in the nape.