The clashing din of midnight loons
Carousing on the manic wheel
Foolishing another gash
Only for the want of a place to peek

Moonshine in a crabbit alley
Heel-ponce keeps dick
While bashful gets his piece out
And douses the scoundrel to his bones

Now loud the corporal basks
And asks keenly for come-uppance
Sanitation arriving bleeps
And the whole thing does a runner

——————————————————————————————————————

-He walks like a bitch, dresses like a tramp, finds his way about with a miner’s lamp.

-What’s that you’re singing?

-Aw just a wee song I’m writing.

-Nice. What’s it called?

-It’s called Maggie’s Britches Will Not Do.

-Oh right. Is that off that Iron Lady Concept album you have coming out?

-Naw, this one’s based on the life of a fella I seen sitting outside City Hall on a Saturday afternoon in September of 1973.

-Say no more. Here, you’re on the boiled eggs again today.

-Always and forever. Know where ye are with a good boiled egg. Have to get the troops marshalled here too…

-What’s he on about the troops?

-That’s what he calls his soldiers.

-Aye, but it’s just toast.

-Here, son, I’ve been eating boiled eggs for more than fifty years. I ought to know a thing or two about them, shouldn’t I?

-The troops…

-Yeah, and that makes me the General, so don’t make me have to pull rank here.
Anyway, aye. I was speaking to the pressing agents yesterday, they said they can do the ton at 150 so it’s looking good…

-Well that’s beyond fabulous, Lucy-Margaret. Let me just check on the salted flapjacks…

-What is it you do, Thestle?

-I’m a humanitarian, thank you.

-Ooh, how delightful! And where is it that you work, love?

-In bathrooms. Mostly.

-Oh

-Yes well you see, when you’re cleaning your own toilet, scrubbing away at your own fecal matter, it doesn’t mean so much, does it?  But to be faced everyday with the piling stains of strangers, the various smells, the sights. It’s quite a thing I’ll have you know.

-That’s fascinating. No thanks, I’ll pass on the flapjack, Juwanda.

-So. I began thinking of each of these strangers, in order to lighten the load so to speak, as members of my family. It was much easier for me to face the task at hand if it were a brother’s, or say my son’s stubborn turd tracks that I were getting rid of. So of course, by the process of reverse logic in practice, I soon began to look at these disgusting men, who frequent the rest rooms in bus stations and pubs, as truly my family, in a strictly human sense. In a manner of speaking, I was forced to broaden my vision of the world’s population as an international brotherhood, through shit, really.

———————————————————

-You’re a bitter cynical bastard, Barry. Aren’t ye?

-Wa?

-Ack nahin. Do ye mind the time ye raced the horse?

-Aye, and I nearly beat him, didn’t I?

-Ye were up that hill like fuck. No helmet or nothin.

-Coulda won the Olympics, if I’d went in for it like.

-Ye’d have never got past the drug test, son. Mind that, there’s some craic about thon Olympic village.

-Aye. My plan was to go in like Good Will Huntin. Go runnin down the corridors, then they’d let me in probably.

-Well, Barry, far be it from me to dismantle the dreams of any young scoundrel; but did ye ever stop to consider the logistics of such an audacious sherade?

-Well…

-Naw. Ye did not. And that’s why you and me’s sittin here, talkin shite; and that Matt Damon’s over in Hollywood, stickin it into some young starlet. Goodnight, son.

—————————————————————

Rollin Stones, ye can lick the fuckin back of them
You got two women, sure look at the fuckin hack a them

Bally fuckin hackamore, wanna go to moneymore
Havin craic wi Macklemore
Post Malone Boyzone
Lights are out im on my own

******************************************

I know that I locked the back door but I’m going to check it again anyway. Street kids always a danger. Nowadays they’ve got all those fancy acids for rotting the crud right off their teeth…

I went calling for my friend Epstein. Don’t worry, not Epstein, the infamous. It’s just that his name was Geoffrey and we called him that as a sort of a tease.

‘Ulster Volunteer Force. We’ve come for you, you bastard.’

No answer. Undeterred, I stormed the stairs, in search of somewhere suitable for the dispatching of a well-formed stool.

As the mechanism struggled to flush the particularly stubborn turd I began composing a simple hymn…

‘Force the woman gently. From her hindquarters infil-traaate.’

The melodious strain flew my frontal lobe and a sudden hunch for hunger assailed me. I would sequester in the downstairs kitchenette, perhaps being lucky a half-dry crust might find me.

With my pale, limpid, handsome face leant flat against the ancient tiling, I peered into cobwebbed cupboards. Lentils lentils lentils. Fuck it. I’ll have another drink.