It’s a lethal ballet
Air traffic congestion
I’m having a baby
Second thoughts
Scotch
Dinner and
Someone’s dancing on the box
A former MP and no one’s watching
My oldest friends are a serious habit
Fly boy blue
So bring your faces
Home to my sweet trampoline
And acres of crash site love

Presidential delays
Suppose I’m just lucky
l’m having a shindig
Me, Red Bob and The Ivory Host
And someone’s shouting on the box
A chinless prefect gone Godzilla
My newest friends have forgotten my name
But so have I so far so good and home
You and me trampoline
And oceans of crash site love

Lunette
What can be said of the cigarettes smoked
A prop for a joke or a mark on the clock
If I stopped would the bus ever come
Would the dawn ever kiss me forgivingly knowing what’s done
Would the drivel make scribble, make sense and then song
Would the woodbines denied black another man’s lungs
Perverse as it may sound I sometimes believe
The tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe

What can be said of the whiskey and wine
Random abandon or ballast for joy
That was scuppered with trust
Little more than a boy
And besides I’m in excellent company
I’m reaching the age when decisions are made on the life and the liver
And I’m sure, last ditch that I’ll ask for more time
But Mother forgive me
I still want a bottle of good Irish whiskey
And a bundle of smokes in my grave

But there isn’t words yet for the comfort I get
From the gentle lunette at the top of the nape of the neck that I wake to
And where are the words for the leap in my chest
When mischief appears either side of the scar on your nose
Made by a rose thorn
So you claim
By a rose thorn