Donlon Gone
I flew in from the West, mostly done,
a crisp packet on the breeze - cheese and onion,
prawn cocktail, marmite or gammon –
these are my favourites, see? Have some.
And they put me up in accommodation,
showed me a local gym,
how to get takeaways delivered by them
poor people - in bags of trays
like your sweet sticky cold coffees,
your burgers, chickens, doughnuts, toffee
flavoured popped chips - left on me doorstep
until my arse is buggered out of bed,
shower with only seconds flat,
grab me drink, make the bus and sit,
shuttled in to work unprepared,
doze in front of twenty kids and stare
hungover at me phone. It's great, dozens of us
with just about enough pay
to - come the weekend - get pissed, you know,
until the money runs out - halfway through
the month, regular as clockwork,
screaming good crack, good crack
at one in the morning,
having fist fights in the foyer and falling -
if anything’s there it’s nothing that I lack.
Then, one of them declared war on another one,
their loss, that’s me, Donlon gone.
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