Started on 01 Jan 201510 poems
I’m twenty years old,
I’m called Mary McGlade
And I work at the heart
Of our town’s linen
I was half asleep at the time,
Slumped in my chair at the Friday round table of area
I hate this job and its driving me nuts
Killing my soul by a thousand cuts.
I can’t stand the
The coffee burns as I dip,
Peppering the plastic beak of the cup lid,
With my scrawny
My but this is a decadent jolly,
Business Class, no less, once again.
I’ll have a Champaign
Sure what would I know about anything?
I have to read books, I’m so thick.
Thick as champ, my old
Fortune smiled on Derry in the end of fifty six,
When a little field of nothing much was added to
Brown-stained mug rinsed, but not washed, tay-bag in.
He stands there, bold as brass, all puffed up and self-important.
Full of shite of
Endless frittering of an afternoon,
Misspent middle age, maybe, yes,
Trawling, trawling, trawling,