Manchester's gay hamlet

has long since been a sanctuary

for parlor princesses to sway their tits free

from thick veined impalers who skirted the moat;

their hot swords smoking from pint piss.

 

One often forgets that

cemented with the secret elixir

 of man's love for man's folly;

it was a safe and sordid Avalon.

 

Often lulled by the music

or some other bullshit,

stone age suitors were enchanted

and bent at dusk

scuttling under the bridge

lavender laden,

longing for lads.

 

My tea bag tea shirted contemporaries

could end each evening

suckling the nob of some yob

and there am I

clip clopping the slick stocking in charcoal grey

laddered by desperate ducks;

teetering on the bank's slimy lips,

holding the chips.