Too many night times
too many dawns
too many roses to
bed my crown of thorns,
too much to remember
and
more to forget
too many lovers
and who would
place a bet
on me?

My head is full of
lead shot
it weighs my shoulders down
thinking
there aren't any heroes
in this old northern town,
there are
only old men coughing out
the fine dust from the mill
as they stagger up the high street
and mope off down the hill.

reasons to stay
and
reasons to flee,
but who would
place a bet on me?

There is no open space
just the blank look on the haggard face
which mark this moment of a man
the
'five year plan?'
the
'ten pound Pom?'

all gone.