Woe to the woman on the streets
who pays her way with poetry
I read the words she’s selling
and know just what she’s buying
Sunken sockets set her face
unsubtle disposition -of desperation
that her father left to her
as a heavy inheritance
And yet still a soul survives
in the words she writes
her sordid-sullen look belies
the hope still left inside.
John- he’s a vagabond.
and lives in a hedge just off the M4
He says he don’t take no shit
but that he misses his daughter
Said his missus stitched him up right proper
and he lost everything
so he cut his loss and hit the road
“Got no time for playing the game”
He din’t have much to give,
and yet still- he did
gave me his pen: “you keep it”
to scribble my way to catch a ride
“And don’t stand too close to the highway,
you’ll get nicked”
a scribe and a word of sound advice
a second honest gift
I said I’d pay him in return
I’ve got some munch bars in my bag
face lit up “Are they the ones with raisins?
Man those ones are my favourite”
So I gave him the whole box
and wish I could’ve given more
but I guess you don’t need much to make you happy
when you’re used to living poor.
Steve, he ain’t sold on society. Said:
“If I’m outta my mind, that’s alright- with me
Would you rather be free In thought
or have a lot of money?
Got nothing;
Nothing to worry about-
‘Cept water and whiskey
and I’m rolling on free.”
He takes another swig
she tears another page
and John still misses his daughter
Aethnen 
Leave a comment