big town blues (xxi) — sixty seven

like a scene from the end of lunch
not sated by greased rock and custard
having to at the desk having to enact

silly arse the conscience keeps
freelance by the moment not here equivocal
not settled it’s a cold bloody normal

anyway it’s no greased custard morning
unslept by bad rock misplayed at midnight
neighboured bar bringing ineedjit punters

allergy pollen in the eyes rasp discast
go sleep will fix at the desk trouble
you know i think i’ll bugger off

but have i have i fuck still deskating
like a whinging imagination screeching nil
sod the fucking planet i gone go not