07-22-2015, 06:55 AM
Edit 1 thanks to AJ and Brownlie
There's music to be found and drunk
with a well placed ear on cobbled streets,
any man or musician could drown
in Guinness, if the mood is dark
and the kings Island has his shilling.
It's too dark to see the swans
and the one too many drinkers
three stone bridges chew the tide
until Atlantic skies turn light,
then the river falls majestic.
Gypsy royals still roam the roads
gunslingers without saddles,
strong horsed at the traffic lights,
flicks a tail at the car along side.
green goes true grit,
racing for slips.
The buildings old enough to look,
glimpse an echo of a once proud past
their faces weathered on worn down steps,
see a place reflected in their eyes.
Plush black coach-work and single rigs,
trundle through the horse drawn streets,
running milk and whiskey in the mud.
The two bangs of a man hole cover,
gunshots stop the martial law,
blink and the cars return.
There are babies in prams
mothers with false tans
being fed free wifi burgers,
I start a note on a white serviette
but the grease coats the ball
at the point of my pen.
A man from Manchester
who plays the pubs
said you can dance if you want to,
so I bought an Ashton in an Aldi car park.
Designed down under, Made in Korea,
it thunders when I bang the strings.
The McManager is asking the wifi's
to leave and they do, running on battery
to the next free zone.
I dip the last of my chips
into a tub of curry sauce,
feeling old enough to mind my business,
feeling sad the present cheapens the past,
It won't lasts.
Original
There are babies with false tans
being fed free wifi burgers,
I feel old enough to look
but not for too long.
He rode into town,
a gunslinger without a saddle,
pulls up at the traffic lights,
gives the eye to the car along side.
The lights change, true grit
racing for slips.
The buildings old enough to look
can't resist,
a proud past reflects in their eyes
but not for too long.
I start a note on a white serviette
but the grease from the cheese
puts a stop to the horse
and I noticed the baby has an earring.
A man from Manchester who plays the pubs
said don't give Ryanair a guitar,
so I bought an Ashton in an Aldi car park.
Designed in Australia? Made in Korea,
it does thunder when I play.
River rescue teams train at night
watched by white swans and wineo's.
A vicious mouth
wired shut by three stone bridges
that scrape and chew against the tide
until the morning turns the light
and swans glide out for fresh baked bread.
Old boys line the walls of splintered wood,
speaking in tongues of how it was
when the waters played an Irish jig
to a well placed ear on cobbled streets,
any man or musician could drown
in Guinness, if the mood was dark
and the king's Island had taken his shilling.
The manager is asking the wifi's
to leave and they do, running on battery
to the next free zone.
I dip the last of my chips
in a small tub of curry sauce,
waiting for the posse to arrive,
I feel old enough to be the Sheriff
but not for too long.
There's music to be found and drunk
with a well placed ear on cobbled streets,
any man or musician could drown
in Guinness, if the mood is dark
and the kings Island has his shilling.
It's too dark to see the swans
and the one too many drinkers
three stone bridges chew the tide
until Atlantic skies turn light,
then the river falls majestic.
Gypsy royals still roam the roads
gunslingers without saddles,
strong horsed at the traffic lights,
flicks a tail at the car along side.
green goes true grit,
racing for slips.
The buildings old enough to look,
glimpse an echo of a once proud past
their faces weathered on worn down steps,
see a place reflected in their eyes.
Plush black coach-work and single rigs,
trundle through the horse drawn streets,
running milk and whiskey in the mud.
The two bangs of a man hole cover,
gunshots stop the martial law,
blink and the cars return.
There are babies in prams
mothers with false tans
being fed free wifi burgers,
I start a note on a white serviette
but the grease coats the ball
at the point of my pen.
A man from Manchester
who plays the pubs
said you can dance if you want to,
so I bought an Ashton in an Aldi car park.
Designed down under, Made in Korea,
it thunders when I bang the strings.
The McManager is asking the wifi's
to leave and they do, running on battery
to the next free zone.
I dip the last of my chips
into a tub of curry sauce,
feeling old enough to mind my business,
feeling sad the present cheapens the past,
It won't lasts.
Original
There are babies with false tans
being fed free wifi burgers,
I feel old enough to look
but not for too long.
He rode into town,
a gunslinger without a saddle,
pulls up at the traffic lights,
gives the eye to the car along side.
The lights change, true grit
racing for slips.
The buildings old enough to look
can't resist,
a proud past reflects in their eyes
but not for too long.
I start a note on a white serviette
but the grease from the cheese
puts a stop to the horse
and I noticed the baby has an earring.
A man from Manchester who plays the pubs
said don't give Ryanair a guitar,
so I bought an Ashton in an Aldi car park.
Designed in Australia? Made in Korea,
it does thunder when I play.
River rescue teams train at night
watched by white swans and wineo's.
A vicious mouth
wired shut by three stone bridges
that scrape and chew against the tide
until the morning turns the light
and swans glide out for fresh baked bread.
Old boys line the walls of splintered wood,
speaking in tongues of how it was
when the waters played an Irish jig
to a well placed ear on cobbled streets,
any man or musician could drown
in Guinness, if the mood was dark
and the king's Island had taken his shilling.
The manager is asking the wifi's
to leave and they do, running on battery
to the next free zone.
I dip the last of my chips
in a small tub of curry sauce,
waiting for the posse to arrive,
I feel old enough to be the Sheriff
but not for too long.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out