A busker grinds out

‘Fool for your love no more’

with a voice that sounds

like boots on gravel.

 

While I sit on a bench

and unravel

you in my lap.

Twat.

You write what

I should have years ago.

 

That one about the snow

somewhere near Werneth Low.

Well I saw that first,

probably before your birth.

 

You mention Heaton Mersey

I remember the girl in the red striped jersey

on the tow path, beneath the bridge. The view….

…………………………

That was well before you

 

the Kid who climbed that rocky spine

to Zoom from gloom in Yorkshire

and come ashore in Xanadu. I knew

Heaton Moor well before you.

 

So before you went Cloudcuckoo

And wrote some Dead Sea Poems

You should know, from my point of view Simon

There’s some serious credit owing.

 

Because this is my town

 

Simon.

 

Stockport’s silent poetry

belongs to me

Every weather whipped tree

you see,

belongs to me.

not thee.

 

Simon.

 

You University immigrant swine

stealing lines that should be mine.