The cardboard jigsaw,an eyesore but it's sods law and when you've nowhere to go and all doors are locked,
you have nothing to lose by sleeping on a box.
We're a city of flatpacks and the homeless with knapsacks are the ones who are stacked up,jacked up and cracked up and for the lucky ones who've packed up and moved on, that memory is gone,
(the one when they're cast out and last in the queue)

So they do what they do when the night closes in,some take to beer and some to the pin and no one can win when the odds have been fixed or the ****** mixed with bicarb' or brick dust,
this twenty five to one shot which the outsiders have got is not a chance,it's a kicking,a beating and they're being deleted,a rewrite and the new world might never know about the down and the outs down and out on skid row.
I say
God bless the Queen but I bet she's not seen the rough sleepers with rough hands and faces and no places to go where they've not been before.
The revolving door says, come in here for a beer or a pin,come quaff some dry cider or fix ******
you've got nowhere to go and all doors are shut,
there's no maybe or might do, you'll pick one of the two,the pin or the beer to forget that you're here where you don't want to be.
Me,
I chose both locks and both locked me in and only my dreams let me out.

Claim my burden but never

offer your shoulder

to confide, 

to cry,

But you have no tears to spare.

Trying to eat the slice of pie

I spent hours baking,

you spent seconds eating.

Those peaches were freshly picked!

Bathed in bicarb! 

I scrubbed the dirt

until it was nothing but

another piece of myself

for you to ******.

I do not swallow sweetness, 

I choke on copper,

throat bursting to the brim

with pennies-

the same pennies you offer

in penance 

for the burden of lead that

nooses my neck. 

You wear it by choice;

by Gold, 

by Glory,

believing our blood is the same drop split in two.

Though it is proven to be yours for the taking,

you will be tasked with breaking each 

frozen finger, 

forced to pry your prize from

my bruised palms.

A cottage in the country a woven roof of thatch
In the kitchen a fat lady her knickers on the latch
Pulled down past her chubby thighs exposing her hot hatch
Within those apple gatherers a juicy damp wet patch

Wearing an undone apron with her bra unclipped to match
A wooden spoon is waiting she's cooking up a batch
Arthritic hands maybe a snag but not much of a catch
Spoon up her hole to stir the bowl using her wide ******

Two 44dd mixing bowls a mixture of flour and ginger
Sugar hurled and butter twirled with her vigorous ***** ninja
Spoon dripping salted essences oozing down that wooded stirrup
Ground cinnamon is added with her special golden syrup
A touch of soda bicarb an egg mixed in with her *****
Spoon inserted actions ***** squeezing wince and cringe

Shaped and cut a ginger nut ***** mixing makes you ache
Ovens hot sheet trays are got greased slid inside to bake
A warming up made from her cup is this a big mistake
Gingers fine if dough is prime so now who's on the make

Your on the rise what a surprise now you are awake
Placed on the side with tarts beside I wonder what's at stake
Rampant ginger smells so good some pieces fall and flake
In bed with tarts a fancy start when Fred has had his cake