poem

There's been a bit of a boon
in confidence spoons,
but possibly never will.
Be 'twixt and between
"Gossip" and "Clean",
Makes me so gaddamned ill.

So . . . up and about,
all and around,
down at the mouth,
gone underground,
never the all round prize, sport.
"Get home by eight."
"She'll be right mate."
You've been a real good sort.