From the Archives...
Perhaps for a pint or slice of cake,
in a pub or grocer’s shop,
and because she punctured yet again
those bruises on your forearm ?
It just seemed so out of place,
that croaked ‘Thankyou’,
stopped only from toppling down the throat
because of its exit on a puff of pain.
As we left via ‘Casualty’,
threading the rows of
the boozed and battered,
some pissed pugilist announced
he’d “waited for fucking ages…”,
as we stepped out to a ‘forever’
fresh started that night.