That there, could be evidence.
So he shied it over the church low wall,
before ducking in the licenced temptapory,
for a bask, flask distract.
Scarlet sparked talons stayed
way below the hillside tavern table.
Afternoon off's rare sun, cracked cloud nines
over dry stone ear wet.
Nails were hid from all as hard as
By a seventeen three six fiver.
Except for Regal shortening and his afternoon shite cider grasp,
They were Joe Bloggs curled and thrust.
Pitches put, five bobs burnt,
pocket lessons learnt from.
Pool refused as long hair grew,
And only his resignated driver,
Got a glimpse and gave a wink of trust.
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