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TRENCHANT WENCH FROM THE UNROMANTIC MIDLANDS In the pub, I serve out the pints My comely bosom gives a hint of home And what men are escaping from – dreary sex With housewives who scour the sink with vigour Trim the joint and lard the fowl Gristles of fat clinging to their knuckles As the froth of beer clings to men’s beards. England is a riff between the breakfast table and tea Where homely condiments drown the flavour Of each day, and newspapers live on scandal The seamier the better. It makes the ordinary man Happier than ever not to be one of the toffs Glad that she can be had for a song Save the one that lies buried in her throat.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015

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