Monday, 28 January 2013
Seven Ages of Day
Sun’s as bright as a hospital lightbulb
makes me eyes water and cry;
time to be up and about in me trousers,
get me washed into the day.
Just before lunchtime, I chat to me mates,
head off to the caff with young Amy
and by mid-afternoon I be graftin’ like bullocks
or else I’ll end up in the army
but just before tea-time I suss it all out
and tell all the bosses ‘bog off’
then flop in me chair now, with cold beans on toast
and watch me some footie on t’box
but it’s darker than caves, and both eyes are red,
so I’d better head off up the stairs into clouds in my bed.