I look at my fingers and draw a breath
Looking at the TV
No thoughts on a famous death
Why aren’t normal people read on the news?
Now, let’s focus on those subtle cues
From froggy legs to shiny shoes
A suspended glass
To the old beer-mat trick
God, these geezers are wickedy sick
Plastic bottle 360-flipping, from the back
to the palm of his hand in a flash
Enough to charm and disarm in any Publand
Met with mean looks in his ‘70’s coat
As those old fellas croaked
The back of the rusty dryer in the men’s reads:
‘Didn’t you know your fur had a face?’
So he scribbled it out and wrote ‘race’
Endless chat about this and that
A lager or a bitter, it’s a matter of fact
Bragging about his brand new vape
And the edibles he incessantly ate
How did he cram it all in?
But it’s Publand and we’re all snowed in
#punkpoetry1
By Samuel Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 