Trenchant Wench From the Unromantic Midlands

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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