I rocked into the airport
But somehow alerted the curious
Unable to avert becoming furious.
They let me in the country, eventually,
Once they'd emptied my undies
Dirty socks and poetry
Onto their inspection desk.
I was about to pick up my only tie
Thinking respectability would suffice
"Don't touch anything!" she snapped.
Her boss came over and asked me at length
About my recreational drug use
In another country
And when I became unbecoming
He assumed I was a courier
Smuggling illicit substances.
"All I brought with me is my poetry." I assured them
But the custom's officers
Seemed averse to my verse.
Luckily I avoided arrest
And thus deportation.
I can't recall all the questions they asked me:
Why are you here?
What is your itinery?
Who do you know and where will you stay?
But I only remembered nicknames
From long decades ago.
Maybe I am to blame
For being a disorganised fool
And the copy of the Koran I carried didn't help.
"Can you tell me about this?" he asked.
"It's the Koran. My King James was too heavy to carry.
See here, Muhammad's mother is named Aminah
The question the recent Nairobi attackers asked before they
Dispatched the unbelievers. That could save your life." I told him.
But he glared back at me
Like I was a potential drug smuggling
Seeking to blow up Christchurch's remaining in tact buildings.
I think he was confusing Terrorism with Futility.
But unlike me he has a job to do, a noble duty
To protect his nation from disorganised fools like me
Who believe in so little, and that's the beauty.
I should have asked them if they had fail a test to get their jobs.