Invest in a vest, no vested interests
He just wants to be the best mess
That he can be, better than all the rest,
Skin pressed red,
Pink like a raw chicken breast,
Or salt cooked salmon
Little curls of grey ramen
Growing right out of his chest,
Armpits too,
Cultures growing into something rude
A clump of nosy neighbours
Doing no one any favours
Wafting exotic scented flavours –
Au du ‘enemy of bathers’
The musk of sun ripened labour
Get dat cash in hand playa,
Stuff it in your bumbag, fannypack,
Wads of cash, rubber band goes snap.
Panting with a Lab’s lap,
Never had the last laugh cos he’s a real thinker,
One arm crossed, the other upright
If we brake now might fuck up his whole life.
Might just fill the hole in his life
But not the hole on his head,
Pretty tired Friar Tuck, no luck,
Partially bald, silver wings garland the hole
Hiding ears like Victorian ankles,
Better drop the anchor so alls well that ends well
Getting off at Stockwell,
The train don’t stop well
His heart swells, stops, drops and rolls
Call it the final toll of the bell.