Pondlife

 

Pondlife

 

In order to irk swimmers

minding their own at the pool,

here comes your toolbox short of a tool,

one of the many buds, doods or brohs

who washed up stranded in France,

having crossed La Manche,

dragging their canvas wagon-trains behind them.

 

Well, it’s more a Tonka Truck thing,

tug at axles with its large metal handle

and you could easily get four on that,

two abreast each side, hauling his crappy tat,

sucking tits, four thick, swollen rubbers

that back-along surely must’ve leaked

and where it goes

he gives not a fuck,

just a plank pulling his lumbering truck.

 

Chucky wheels ford the footbath

and, oh no, too late - that’s the springing gate

trapping feet, clipping heels,

snagging stray pubes

desperate to escape his sweaty speedos

as he’s pissing about with dewberry vapes,

adjusting his bollocks and baseball hat,

sticking his shades back on and that,

for a moment, panic, every bugger’s stuck

between this dickhead and his fucking truck.

 

With a titanic effort he’s scraping tiles,

like toddlers in school dinner queues

making pigswill out of stew,

but through the slit, forces hard,

ignores the fact the walls are scarred,

has pulled his cork from the bottle,

although it comes too quick

and smacks up the pinhead prick.

If he’s noticed the queue is debatable,

checks he’s not ruptured his inflatables,

Emerges triumphant and punches sky,

looking for gasps of admiration, 

then, pushing past his witless competition

lobbing towels - completes the mission,

claiming loungers, right, left, centre court,

and all the garbage he has brought

teaches the lessons he was taught.

 

Let he who dares try:

if you want a seat you’re out of luck,

because only concrete skulls can come between

the terrace talk and winning grin

of an estuary dickhead

and his fucking truck.