Canto CXXVII

I haven’t had a single beer at home
since the piss stick heralded the news
that life had blossomed within my wife’s womb,

so I can be a bit judgmental too
when the man who plays guitar down Brockwell Park
bought himself two cans of Special Brew

at 8am. The cashier wasn’t shocked,
must be his usual, just like my croissants.
Some drink for pleasure, some drink to get fucked,

some drink for courage, some get drunk to dance
and some get tanked up so that they can strum
the summer anthem for their first romance

at a park bench with their alkie chums,
who join in when the chorus comes around
just like it did in 1971

in some back room venue in Camden Town.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jan 08, 2012 @ 14:43:39

    This poem reminded me of Charlie.

    Reply

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