Trail hand
by @john-edward-smallshaw
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 pissed 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.