Did your da ask you For the ciggies? Kennedy Asks, his nose holding Onto a piece of snot, his Lemony eyes giving you The big stare, the chin
Stubbly and grey, the Mouth, a deserted Cemetery of broken Tomb-like teeth. He Did so, you reply, looking Away from the eyes,
Taking in the cigarettes Behind the counter of the Small tobacconist shop, Feeling the sweat on your Collar, smelling Kennedyβs Breath, the stink of tobacco
And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons Behind you, scratching her ****, tut-tutting impatiently, Jabbing you in the back with The bony finger of her other Hand, saying in her baritone
Voice: Are you going to give The boy the ciggies or not As my shitearse of an Husbandβs waiting for his Tea and I need his old **** Before he leaves for work.
Kennedy hands you the Ciggies with the big sigh And stern stare and you Hand him the coins sweaty And damp and smell the Scent of fear and anxiety Lingering in the evening air.