Oddball faux
Rock n' Roll Joe,
Fiddles and picks
Orange pips
From teeth
Gnashed between
The 7th and the 8th,
On a lowly pew,
Wi' overpriced
IPA sips.
Get the surveyors in
To look at this,
It's drastic, mate.
Not the
Peeling ceiling,
It's the
Somehow free-wheelin'
With less than 5 bob,
In this half-packed
Afternoon rub-a-dub.
Scratchcard table propped
Goths in the corner
Stay away.
He's always
Ligging in the rigging,
But never
Twigging...
Til one day a fat
Rock tattooed fist
WILL put his scrawn
Four-to-the-floor.
He once was Elvis.
His hands' wrinkles were
Filled with plaster dust.
Now they gape as
Openly as his gob an'
His barmaid directed lust.
With a hops n' scotch stumble,
Waves in the phrase:
"To hell with this!"
All knowing that:
This cider black sticky floor,
For tomorrow,
Be his, for a bit,
Once more.
2016
Cov 451
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