The Cussing Poem Maker
The glass slams down empty.
The poet swears in monosyllables
about life, or not being served another drink,
it’s all a torturous ordeal.
He claims he’s only had a couple,
believe me he’s had his fill.
He walks like he’s roller-skating
on ice, throwing air punches
at metaphors that just won’t behave
and like an Englishman abroad
he’s shouting to be understood.
Humour him like the nutter
with two carrier bags full of yesterdays
that always seeks you out
to sit next to on the train.