Wetherspoons

 

 

 

            “I been a better man in my time!”

Said he to himself at the bottom of glass,

His leather of features all ruddy and harsh.

 

 

            He built the city,

The tall buildings and numerous shops,

     “I built this city”

Said he serenely back to his past.

 

 

            Scarred amongst places,

Criss-crossed by fine lines and intricate

Strains,

            Only the old can read

Maps many times surveyed.

 

 

            Crouched at the table

Sitting over his shoulder; a million

Struggled in vain to behave,

            Behave like zoo animals

Splashing puddles in rain,

 

 

            His lips are moving –

Moving like shadows bereft of the Sun,

Alone in his world, he looks to the doorway

Beckoning insanely the sound of a gun.

 

 

            A shots on his mind –

A single of whisky – maybe a malt,

     A sip – no a slug,

     A slug to the brain and maybe

A smile for his children,

Spending his pension,

The last of his shillings,

He’s talking in sufferance and taking all blame.

 

 

Michael J Waite 12^th October 2009