Milking It

It’s a pile of chickens
The sun’s the colour
Of piss on chrome

Where there’s overproof
Of the underdog
Who cannot find its home

They’re outsourcing
The infighting there’s a
Claret barrack warning

Some boldly bowl
To backward go for
More sad cider mornings

Their preferred topping
Is the sleep in your eye
For their 99th balloon

Of brandy chances are
The spitfire suits are
Dry-cleaning up real soon

There’s a hole that’s drilled
In the silencer
Of your neighbour’s car

They give it one last coat
Of looking at it
Standing round the bar

There’s an inter-cover
Chevron arrangement
If you look two wine lists back

Where interstatial
Slovenly agents
Galvanise attacks

But brass they want us be
With tin tankard clinks
Like facts that lie that flow

Like piss in sinks
Where they die to cast
And where they tap to bend

Say misunderstandings
Have a long life
So be prepared to milk ‘em