He opened car door,
cigarette smoke billowed out,
clouding old bastards walking past.
His girl friend likes shit.
Shit music, shit clothes,
But most of all
shits like him.
He wears a football shirt,
Wallsall, should be Arsehole F.C.
Equals Fuckin’ cunt that he is.
He lolls back,
Grunts the great inaudible
“As thar gor anoother?
Leet it up fer us pet.”
By freakish fingered sleight of hand,
she slews across, drops lit stick back
in its box. Up flares the lot,
fair and square across his
milk white hairless chest
Football vest up in smoke,
her screamin’, him blazin’
When he was good and proper crisped
I risked life and limb, like what you have to do,
doused him in a bottle of Premier Cru