Broken, turning to the arm of the record player

resting down the crackling voice

telling you what you have just been through

and will do again, and you are not alone.

And the words seep in like a porous sponge

just wanting to be healed and protected

and you carry his armour

of a trilby hat

not so fitting suit

a smile that would fit perfectly on a child

dent the slinging arrows

and barbed words

that come your way

and trickle slowly down the rainy street

singing his words