I'm fried.
Eggs and bacon in the brainpan,
so I hide.
Scrambled eggs leaking,
from my mouth as I'm speaking,
talking bubble and squeak,
I'm a freak,
sure.
Begging.
Ham and egging
for the daily cure,
to which,I don't doubt,
enrich the timber and pitch of the shouts
I encounter,
as I mount her.
Whispered endearments that I'm quite sure will melt her,
fucking half drunk,
in a Grimsby bus shelter.
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