Sunday, 22 November 2009


I’m sat in a never ending state
Of heart break and repair,
And today I’m attempting to mend,
But tomorrow the wind will blow holes through her hair
And she’ll allude to me again,

And my guilt will be spilled
Down the telephone line.
I will have to disconnect it just to
Get a bit of peace and quiet in front of the riot that is the
Union match this afternoon,

And though I get the many
Laws of cricket the rules
Of rugby still puzzle me even after
All these years, but I’d love to stuff her at the bottom of a
Scrum or haul her into a maul.

Man has no more nobler
Critic than the hissing
Bitch he married in a fit of drink
Induced haze, and left in charge of his children when he
Couldn’t stand her grandeur,

And who now dangles them
In front of me when the
Merest whiff of illness or disease
Appears to sheathe them, or ignores my calls the following
Day after being shouted at.

And now after grinding and
Grating a plate full of
Bubble and squeak I may find the
Tranquility I need to address my shattered cardiac gasket
And kick start its basking.

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