Sunday is a given

Sunday is a given

Young guns run

For someone

It could be anyone

From Connor to Bradley.

Cancer relies

On charity

Nothing really changes.

The old lags,

The wheezers

Geezers and survivors

From a life, less lived

Are pushed aside

They couldn’t see the fun in it

Dodging bullets

Was easier

On the nerves

Car exhausts are scary

When they pop pop pop

An old grey man,

Skin, as pitted

As a blacksmith's apron

Sits in a corner

Nursing a cup

Folded bones

Hidden beneath an old trench coat

Eyes wet with regret

And moonshine.

Young things prance by

Full of vinegar

Lithe, smooth skin

Glistening with sweat

And innocence.

Hungry eyes

Gleam from the shadows

Of the old gents' loo

A smell of desperation

And masturbation

Nobody of sound mind

Lingers there.

The morning is stretched

Longer than it was

For the late sleepers

Saying no to morning,

Lying supine

Between the sheets

In blissful ignorance

Of all that is out there.

Sunday is a songbook

Full of memories

And a selection of old hymns

From the Sally bash band

Echoes other days

Preserving

Persevering,

The ghost of old England

Still crazy

After all these years.