There was a time
when I waited every morning to hear the
soft pitter-patter of your feet,
hurried, like a scurrying fox in my
back garden, just this time by my own front gates.
There was a time
when I stood by the door every morning,
yearning to see your smile and hear your whisper of a
'Good day' promise to me, to accidently
drop the box you softly put in my hands so that you can
pick it up for me. Aren't I sneaky.

Nothin' left but empty pockets
And socks wit holes upon each heel.

All the good fings are swept away
Like a rotten banana peel.

Wit nowhere else to turn -
I turn to God.

Wit empty pockets
And holes in my socks -
I turn to God.

{ Weasel }