the rain drums his fingers
impatiently
along the length of a blue
dusting lung busting puckered roof
and fingers the gaps where once
there was glass
wire veined, designed to
resist
a boot, a fist a flick of
the wristy bone
trebuchet yet now carpeting
this concrete nest
of surly youth in a crystal
expression of boys
when they are bored
nowhere better then than
this Park Drive
smokeasy
for the bad ones who will
always try their best,
after mocking words and a
quart of cider,
to cop a feel of the big
bird’s breasts
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