I spent half the journey wondering had I stepped in shite, but it was just the country air. Hundreds of tonnes of Pigshite are travelled through these parts per annum. To whom and why is a complete mystery; but they’re buying it up, by the tonne, I’m telling you the truth now. If they were fit to advertise it I’m sure it’d be on every billboard: Cookstown’s Finest. As seen on T.V. Well I’d contributed plenty of my own, Special Reserve, 10 Year Cherry Cask. Shite’s shite at the end of the day, but, isn’t it? In the interest of a peaceful evening, let’s keep this one short.

---

You’re just a guy
Sat down the pub
So fucking what?
You fell in love?

You want a window?
‘Mon over here
And grab for me and for him
Another pint of beer

You’re just a lad
Sat with the boys
Halfways lit
Making noise

Your jokes are shit
But mine are worse
Ye mind the time
I pulled that nurse?

Your mummy’s dying
Your daddy’s dead
Sure here, what odds?
Look straight ahead

You are the man
But keep it short
The guy across
Is making his retort

————————————————————————————————————

With clever planning
We can make it through
There’s room for more
After me and you

Take you the torch
Good man yourself
You’re better looking
After I’ve drank my health

I’m only joking
Lead the way
And maybe after
We’ll let you have your say

——————————————————————————————————

Poetry is a curse
Upon the victims of its hearing
And a curse
Upon the head of him there waiting

——————————————————————————————————–

Perturbed beyond a scalding clash
Finding all my futures blessed
And out beyond, the system’s crashed
Writhing moan this one’s possessed

Slash the stalks as mourners grind
Close the door on paupers please
Focus and you’re bound to find
A better place down on your knees

---

It being morning I’ve got to get to writing. So up the pen I pick it, locate the candle and I wick it.
I need a hint, something to get me started. Why don’t you think of a colour, and I’ll tell you the colour you’re thinking of? Pink? Okay. It’s nothing but a pink silk sky salmon sheathes align the bay. There’s a Gordontrot a-thumping and I think I’ve found my angle…