Think of my German roots.
Nothing like the hike for a
Spike in my efforts to
Face egging myself on,
For a damp canvas ejection,
With sleep kaput.
Campsite, I
Imagine them exercise,
A DDR Fitness Programme,
Old women, men
On damp grass,
Getting stretchy
With Bletchley Park precision.
What a carry on!
Maybe it’s my roots?
Four days pass.
The half-arsed light,
Brings breath like schnapps.
Not razor sharp,
Fresh-faced and fiddling fit,
I’m a clammy,
Razor broken pit flea.
I look like
Sea Sick Steve.
So much so,
At the last pub for miles,
A local (the Don Arden of
Schadenfreude)
Turns:
“Are you
That,
Sick Ste?”
“Nein.”
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