When you can only afford margarine,
which side your bread's buttered on is
immaterial.

The smoke swirls in anti clockwise perfection,
time
goes in the usual direction and the wine slips down
sweet.

Make do and mend,
will you break if you bend?

I am gypsyish with a wish in the well, a bandana looks good although I look like hell.

No more rock just a leisurely stroll and soul music.

The end is the night and
the day is but a trick of the light.
I sit tight and see it through.