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Stiff-collared, strung-waisted and hitched up high
He approaches his town and his two a.m. sober stretch home to his hall
His business day is behind but night hides behind these wet December streets Sludged and hair thin greased by the tears of those he has hurt.
He’s happy.
Passing are the public houses baking his bread to break at St Mary’s
Private brash badges, the cock’s arse, the right git, the bastard’s brewery all his Silent salons spill into the street like swamp
They speak only drowned cries from those he has hurt. He’s happy.
The ill, the poor, the powerless, the deserving, the loyal, the workers Smothered by his pillows of justice, pillows of the establishment he puns Untroubled and flop Wellingtons ahead squeezing a last note
From a Christmas croon – i – o, i – o, i – o – here’s to those he has hurt. He’s happy.
Void shop boarded tight no souls or sales of sweets here.
Santa Humph marches on knuckle-tapping sure the shutters in time to his song Bars of begging bodies lie mixer-stacked inside
Outside he rolls them with his foot in his head to the gutter – here’s hoping it hurts, he says. He’s happy.
Over his bridge, his river waterbed of ale and rose-struck Christmas lights
That should bloom gold in December in the wake of Harris tweed and soft sweet beer But it runs rancid blue with the Smith stain as he skip-steps over
Fair fairy-light like, he flops toward his hall – the high-walled hall built on hurt He’s happy.
This is our hall in our flat-faced slab of vale in our Yorkshire market town held hung by him whose claim is nowt but his mum and dad and other dead Smiths
to wreck lives, to prosper and puff up his cock’s arse, right git, the bastard’s brewery till Sunday when he is forgiven – here’s hoping he is – this sad man
Posterity take Tad back.
December 13, 2014