Volley'd and Thunder'd

[billy]

“Never trust a poet.” That’s what Daddy said to me,
when I was knock-kneed in the factory
and knocked up on the floor
while the whiff of something more
drowned in Brut and milky tea.

Lord Tennyson was late again
and half a league behind me
so he missed the mouth of hell
I described so bloody well
after waiting in the mill for him to find me
i laughed at the 1st 3 lines of the above, this is my fave verse.

And the body odour hugged me, brotherly
with a slightly leering passage to the right
where the rotten gods had laced their boots up tight
and sabres bared, they left
to assault the barren cleft
while the mothers waved their banners in the lee

Trust a poet’s patterns while he traces them in air
for wayward thumbs to print in stammered ink
and bloodied girls to think
there’s an exit from the pink
to erase the flash of muddy underwear

But disillusion issues cold
from waters barely flowing
where currents travel there and back
but in between their charge is slack
and lives drift by, delightfully unknowing

it feels like a cross between Kipling's gunga din and the green eye of the little yellow god by J. Milton Hayes, which was a monologue, and the meter here is different.
i'm not sure if i should laugh but at the 1st person's misfortunes but i did.

factory feels a little forced to me, but i think thats more to do with diction on my part (i say it as fact ree and not as the dictionary)
the last line of the 1st verse was as solid and down to earth as it gets for me it also defines an early period in time. brut was biggest when i was young. i enjoyed the extended use of tennyson from 2nd through all the peom to the end. i'll be honest and say i struggled to find a consistant meter but it flowed really well and thats what meter's about isn't it?
all (JMO)

thanks for the read Leanne.