Old Tyke Blues

 

I woke up this morning -

found my leg was dead.

Slipped as I got up

and banged my head,

fingers to temple

came away red,

trail on the carpet

where I had bled.

 

Went down for breakfast -

the milk had gone sour,

turned on the toaster -

a distinct lack of power.

Go back upstairs,

stand under the shower -

water is freezing,

been off for an hour.

 

Out of the house

at a quarter to nine,

head is pounding

because of the wine

that I’d quaffed last night -

I thought I’d be fine.

Pain in my chest –

not a good sign.

 

In a bakers in Wigan

I’m offered a barm;

‘It’s a teacake’ I say

as I try to keep calm,

‘A teacake has currents in’,

(I’m wishing her harm)

‘A plain one doesn’t’,

she misses my charm.

 

Somehow I made it

all through the day.

No sight of the sun,

just cloudy and grey.

Dickheads in cars

all got in my way.

Stuck in a jam

and my CD won’t play.

 

Slipped off to the pub -

tripped over the cat.

Crisps were all soggy,

beer was all flat

Some kid in the corner

acting the twat.

Staggered on home

and threw up on the mat.

 

Being an old tyke

I love to complain,

I’m never happy

unless the day has some rain.

Coming from Yorkshire

I relish the pain -

sometimes it’s hard-wired

right into my brain.

 

I get into bed

and reach for the light,

my missus leans over -

I’m thinking ‘a fight’.

She kisses my cheek

then whispers ‘goodnight’

and all of a sudden

the world is alright.