In the high street you turn from Ursula,
that small wreaking bear in a fine old coat:
well worn dichlorobenzenated reminder
of an otherwise wasted life.
Up and down she pads, from dawn to dark,
claws clicking past embarrassed charity,
rather proffering that magnificent maned neck
to the limp lasso of wet and greedy punters.
Her hunted life is heft and loaded into BMWs,
to be stuffed and tipped back later, sore and sober,
that fabulous bear coat torn and taken from her,
the remains of its wilderness scratching at her back.