There never seems to be quite enough seats for the family

the youngest of the family lies across the floor

his chin rested against his couped hands, watching the Tv

the kettle boils during the adverts, a sugar or two, maybe more

 

They talk during a programme they sat down to watch,

Discussing the adverts they chose to skip,

A middle aged father, over-weight, scratching his crotch,

“Yes you can have some beer son, but only a sip.”

 

A ten month old baby, cigarette in hand,

She takes a drag, b+h gold

“uggh!” she will grow up to smoke a different brand

She’ll wish she hadn’t with cancer as a 60 yr old

 

Every family has one, every parent has been one,

The rebellious teenager, he stands outside the shops

Black track suit, black hoody, he’s loved lager since he was one

He’s served for cider, its cheap and easy to hide from the cops

 

A night he started, planning to get bladdered and pull a bird

But that guy came outside, made him look soft,

2 years for manslaughter, he now serves

Need to be tough in prison, so he’ll come out worse off

 

Sunday afternoons, always the same, one change

He has a seat in prison and today there’s enough chairs

Mum sweats over the cooker, tears fall onto the plates

But I know a family, for who Sundays are much worse…