You mentally shut-out the cold rain,
passing smirking, snarling, unfriendly faces,
and the helpful advice of
“Get A Proper Fucking Job!”
… and concentrate upon the task at hand.
She’ll already be stirring by now,
and once ‘That’ has gone…
the Clock is a-ticking
its way, quickly down, to a Nightmare.
I catch myself, unconsciously, wheezing out
the beginning notes of the ‘Funeral March’,
and chuckle sadly to myself.
I recover, from my false start,
with a flat and sickly mouthful
from my pocket-dented Special Brew can,
and a couple of harsh pulls
upon, an earlier concocted, dog-end roll-up.
And then, like a Falling-Apart-Professional
I stamp my right, down-at-heel, boot,
and begin once again in earnest
with a ditty remembered from a previous life
“Oh, Bless Your Beautiful Hiiiiiidddde… “