I think secretly Bukowski
liked the whores
I mean to watch them
but not the mail man

Without a thought in his head
aimlessly delivering mail
one letterbox at a time
with no cussing or complaining

No better to talk to a fucked up
drunk, who has lived in the
madness of life
In its failing
crushing the underdog

who you had put 5 pounds
on to win, but watched
them get crushed
but had they won
a month of booze
could be had

Let’s get down
to the gritty fact
that if you’re a
betting man
you’ll do it again

I don’t bet
I just Imagine
playing with breasts
again, I have a good imagination

But not a good invitation
but here I am
getting rowdy
on English beer

I laugh at the simple
English guy
And talk to others
facing an all to common comment
‘Why don’t you go home’
She did she lives here now
just a rotting bedsit
but it is still our home

England is a conflicted place
of forever double


4 thoughts on “Drunk”

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