Goodness Me - So There Are Five of Me Now
In
silver rain, no doubt, upon
dirty streets:
meantime, I’m picking up
my feet
300 miles, give or take,
from The Fleet
thinking barkers playing flutes,
simple tunes
Toot Toot – and you’d
better enjoy yourself,
it’s later than you think,
Sir Keir.
No, in truth, shipmate,
it’s better here,
lump it long to the big
guy up front
and do you believe it - I
bumped
into you - Mother makes
Five.
Wendy Craig, odd nose, Butterflies,
look, I’m no
how you doing? I’m looking
good, nice of you -
it’s all that Arabian sun –
and I saw Morag,
bit sallow, down in the
mouth, dragging bags,
she’s in Mark’s and – no didn’t
spark
up a conversation –
probably best,
even back then, I liked
her less.
John yesterday, Angel the
day before, that’s 4,
oh, yeah, and Gill, the Madam,
‘Hello!’, flooring
it South in a pedestrian contraflow.
No – since I left, I’m
better than OK, Julie,
although, back then being
exiled was truly
a punch in the knackers – off
you go,
don’t let bitter brains
flood in Amaretto –
watch billowing sails fill
full from the rigging,
and leave all the lazy
minds to the digging.
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