In my pub over my Guinness plugged
into Clover Over Dover on my white-skinned
i-pod to out-hear the music turned
loud and public over the pub speakers, bugged
at its max vol. It’s Blur for me now,
but it was Bird apple-scrappling,
sax tootling scales at melodic speed and grappling
to catch on the tonic. Cinkusi next up, anyhow,
a Bulgarian Romanian eastern band
that clobber any other with upbeat pretences.
My girl’s heavy with her monthly menses,
so I’m keeping off limits. She’ll understand
that when my sensitivity’s given a rubber
I’d rather tuck my head into the paper
and sip on a pint … Let me have some dapper
time, my lovely, alone with my slobber
of beer and my slather of tunes,
alone with my amiable friends
who leave me alone with my ailments and skinny hands
and my eyes forecasting bad runes.
The footie’s on, it’s no-one, only Spurs,
only a game they’re already down and out in.
I’m only here with that old rogue Vladimir Putin,
A sudoko, beer, and the Pyschedelic Firs.