There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.

There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.

There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.

The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.

There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.

There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****,
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.

There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.

There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.

But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.

So you want to be immortal, huh?
What? In one of my poems?
Jeez.  I've just written you a poem
and now you want another.
Brother.  You're insatiable.
I mean, I bet you Shakespeare's missus
didn't say, hey Will, how's about a sonnet
just to sock it to this mortal coil
before we shuffle off, recoiling.
And then, just because she hath her way,
he grabs his quill and says, yair, OK,
now what are the parameters here?
Do ya want some iambic pentameter?

I mean, look.  Fair **** of the saveloy,
no, seriously, why do you think us poets
slave away in our word factories,
hammering out rhythms,
breathing sparks into everything,
giving a few bangs on the side
and trying to straighten it all out?
Eh?  Words almost fail me!

It's because we're trying
to become immortal ourselves!
That's why.  And even if I were
to borrow and to borrow
from the old bard it'd be just like
the plague arisen again with
that Bacon business.
I'd do small good, see?  Forever.

So listen.  Even if I compare thee with
a summer's day and it fair ****** down with rain,
I'm still the one who has to hack the trail.
Right.  So let’s cut a deal here, immediately.
If I, me, this poet can first find immortality,
no worries.  You're welcome to the recipe.

Oi Oi!

Country boy. Never, ever, eaten a saveloy.

Always eats chips with a knife and fork, ask him about his tractor and he’ll talk and talk.

Let’s not mention hunting, we won’t even go there.

He’s got a missus with incredibly long hair. Her brother ended up in local health care after a nasty encounter with a grizzly brown bear.

Best be careful and, beware, as he can get angry and shout and storm and swear.

If he does then you cuddle him and whisper ‘there, there, there, there and never, ever, shout ‘Oi Oi!’