(back in the dentists'
waiting cleanitions
pull gloves with glee) he
was always turned out
laid long louche self backed
to be put about
sniffed the poetry
police presence repped
and barked his new book
published under dog
section three on neck
and knuckle under
ragtime schmutter back
bent going straight from
the gut to the brain
to the out from the off
he forward roared snap
tight into refrains
of studs on concrete
(clattering class was
never going to
go some kickabout)
it battered Mitty:
'scuse me mate, you dropped
an aitch (a front row
sap who mixed arse with
elbow gob and hook)
soon flopped on ropes dropped
by that one inch look
for Mark Thornhill R.I.P.
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