When I was young lad I
had print marks on my
back every morning by
poorly stitched seams
of flour bag bed sheets.

We went barefooted to
school and I can tell you
that t’was many a thistle
of pins and needles got
to go in between our toes.

Later on in life in London
it was scars and scrapes
from shovels and picks &
the Friday night fights and
drunk til Monday morning.

But now an age of wisdom
no anaesthetic of my youth
to **** the stain of a useless
life, a tattoo of pain transfers
in my mind, but it’s invisible!