One time we opened a packing case from India.
Prised the lid with a crowbar. Shredded newspaper.
Shredded paper in pink and green-lime.
A cigarette pack with the warning: cigarettes are injurious to your health.
Then on the front, in old-time lettering cigarettes for the real man.
We pulled this stuff out. This is what the Boss pays us for.
Paper like a mad clown’s wig decorating the grey floor.
Then something starts moving.
The Boss comes in. ‘Look, look’,
the black shape crawling through the papers, flexing its pincers.