Got
The Ticket
Shoved through a few turnstiles in my time
that chew shirts off backs; fingernailed grime
as I'm back-pushed forwards by impatient crowd
drawn panting low down, heard screaming loud.
Bitten by interlocking teeth painted rusting red,
as steel maws tongue your ground brown bread.
You must shoulder arms against meshing cogs
after they rip off your ticket, giving you dog’s,
that punter behind you, nipping your heels,
asking plaintiff-like, 'well would you feel'?
I’ve climbed stone stairs and found cold seat,
in concrete concourse planted hopeful feet,
wolf howled until both teams are well beat,
chucked out, half hoarse, on pickled streets.
I bought that ticket, see? Watched the flick, too.
Well versed. So, understand me, following you,
that sometimes I will feel it. I’ll still be around
to watch them kicking dogs that are down.
You standing there, all sorry and frowning,
but I’m over with clinging couples drowning,
like any football team who promise plenty,
you'll go through full but leave half empty.
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