is there anything more appropriate than having a cup of tea
on a foggy misty London evening
when almost all the tourists have retreated
to their posh hotels with 800 count bedsheets
I stumble along in the East End
far away from Piccadilly Circus and the theatre district
hitting cheap restaurants and trashy bars
with Churchill ringing in my ears
“We shall never surrender”
I surrendered a long time ago
to black knights on white horses
or was it white knights on black horses—whatever
checkmated in a couple of moves
my defense shredded like Lancashire cheese
red labeled scotch in a cracked glass
with cannons of cold cold ice
long long nights made longer and colder
darker than a room at the tower of london
for which if i’m honest i seek no escape from
because the outside world i find to be much worse
random cheers and foreign beers
young foul mouthed punks looking for a fight
double decker bus to the nearest park to sleep it off
