Sunday, 8 May 2016

The View from The Packet Inn

Wi' t' looks of Vic n' Bob's
Uncle Peter,
He's the social-fucking-baro-meter.
Matted hair,
Legs walk past
His dog's-eye view,
One pair,
Smiles for himself,
Reminds him of Donna,
Before this blitz,
On frozen pavers,
Can no longer sitzen,
The strange ignore,
And sometimes spitzen,
Whilst dreams are raw
So, stop, take time,
An' fuckin' listen.


"It's cold" we cry,
It's cold,
She cries.
Dispaired of
These Samaritime
Museum Mannequins,
Gawping reflectively,
In their
In their humanitarian
Gap-year educated
Boat races,
'Til rain, turns them to
Duck and cover
Camoflaging t' cries
Of someone's


Often wishes
His patchy fare,
Could be groomed
Like geezer's there,
But the fixed wheel of life
Allows, none of these
Pleasantries and platitudes,
He Angers up,
With their attitudes,
As one in a thousand does allude
To thrust a coin of a ten-bob hue...
But fails.
Plays busy.
Comes in for a pint.


Off the floor to walk around,
Past the old football ground,
Warm the feet, keep them moving,
Before they are involuntarily so.

Occasionally, he hears the roar
Of victory or lucky draw.
His old man once did tell him 'bout
Rental-shop-window tv crowds.
He ponders 'pon nostaligia briefly,
When life was beaten out 'im weekly,
In each round of the sweet FA cup.


Thrust into the gilded street,
Lily-White without the pictures.
Free-papered glimpse
At weekend fixtures.
He'll keep today's,
Might just need it.
He already knows the score:
Capital one.

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