I keep company and sit

with the empty shells

and yet the clam pit's full,




perhaps there was a cull on clams.




I claim my free prize,




I see potatoes with

the eyes that don't see me

oh goodie, goodie,

chips for tea.




We're either in it for the money or the fame and altruism's just a name  that rolls off eager tongues

so

I play dominoes with those who play with blank dull faces in spots I'd rather be than having tired old chips for tea and still the eyes cannot see me




it comes again to what we know and what we grow and who plants where and when

a company indeed of men, primitive, Methodist, I've gotten ****** with most of them

in the fields and down the pub by half past ten for half a pint of brutish beer, we are only what there is out here and what we give is not too much or not a touch on what we should.




This rambling day,

ivy I would rather be than that

with eyes but who sees me?

a rose, a rose, she grows

but not so quick as can't be cut.




In Yorkshire they aspire

In Lancashire, perspire,

In Wales they have a choir

I prefer to sweat.




As you might plainly see or

as it seems to me to be

poetry's a conjuring,

something

to clear the system out

akin to Ex-Lax

I have no doubt.