Saturday night and Sunday morning shift
One foot in front of the other, well not quite,
for the sleepers slip frosty and my brain is numb;
too much to drink with the boys last night.
The rail is snaking away like the serpent that
shone so seductively in her smile last night across the
dance floor, spinning under the ballroom light that
sparkled like the hoar frost beneath my feet.
I walk on autopilot towards the Vale works,
stacks smoking in the slow straight dawn;
oh yawn, yawn, I need a mug of tea mun.
Boys, boys, never again.
Clock on son, clock on.
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