The ale smell stained on my shirt. The bricked wall of my rented studio apartment. The state of dealing treachery. The ill-lit midnight lobby. The sun crayoning orange shadows over the ghastly, grotty bathroom. All for the mite chance of my words prancing on the article.

Crayoning in the wrinkles on my skin,
please hold
this may take some time,

my chin,
no longer as smooth
as a babies behind,
every time I look
I find
another crease and
that's not really cricket
is it?
but *** it,
it's Friday
I'm doing it my way,

shame about the crayon
I only had a green one.