The sarcastic nature of Mr Ruston (minor language)


I’m sitting at the platform at Dorchester
waiting in listless boredom for the London train
which is never exactly late but never that late
sitting on the cold grey wall, ruff finish slabs on top

A man enters the station on the other platform
heads for the bridge and I can tell by the way he walks
what is coming as he shuffles up each step
which I can see is taking longer than it should

finally he hobbles down the other side
like a red tinted vulture a bird to big,
to big to be graceful and he is going to be flesh picking

“Hey Mate!” he says, I love it when they say that
emphasizing the mate like it must be true
“Give us a fag” he continues – I knew he would
After all I saw it coming as he staggered across the bridge

I tell him that the Tax man takes twenty percent
and the CSA take twenty percent, the rent is too high
and tobacco is like buying gold, a commodity
which he has nothing I want to trade

“Twat” he says as he turns around to saunter on
his way, “your statement is noted” I return
“Sarcastic Twat!!” he said, but now my world
is returning to the norm as I light up my ciggy

Behind his back muttering under my breath
that I hate scroungers there a scourge
that deafen my silence with their hopeful stupidity
that I would be dumb enough to just dull out my gold

You have to trade with sense not stupidity
Still my sarcasm is never dulled


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