A Fellow Traveler from Norwich
Some Thoughts on Some Trains
David, in your chequered coat,
Satan’s claw around your throat,
Fighting past in worried frown,
Still in frock, your hated gown.
Marked and marred by fellow men,
Some English parish left in Fen,
Escaped, you think in traveler’s train,
Heavy lid and fuddled brain.
A hero, every waking hour,
Projecting truth, breath turning sour,
Defenceless in this chosen garb,
Is yours the choice, or others’ barb?
Deprived by those denied a flaw,
Misunderstood; just one glass more.
Which you and I have held in hand
Defeated hydroxyl, one last stand.
Face now frozen and cloudless eyes,
Cuddled in with thankful sighs,
London approaching, closer still,
We know where to get our fill.
Stumbling lights in Charing Cross,
Collar removed, blend with the dross.
Money out, buy beggars a meal,
Learn their past, all drunk and surreal.
Too many bars barring the way,
Will we make the Lord Aberconway,
Too late now to train it back home,
Here is a bench, I have my own.
Sober now in the morning mist,
Wash and brush for Fen land grist
Spick and span for 20 pence coin
Gird your loins, parish re-join.
