I sat in the library wondering why my
fellow readers never seem to fall,
considering they do so much drinking, of alcohol.

Their hearts are failing under broken dreams,
but how many of those have they left sitting on late-departing trains?

Meanwhile the kids mock, alerted by a smoker’s cough,
whose dog barks at the weed, blowing off the Irish Sea.

Then O’Reilly waves, as he walks into the water,
singing a song about Kathleen.

You see his team, colloquially known as The Seagulls, 
have let in too many goals.

While up above the tower sways, with its million rivets.

Am I in a dream?

No, this is Blackpool, a gay, windy, dirty, but funny place,
where the gulls fight with boxing gloves under Queensberry rules,
for food on people’s plates, and the diners are too stoned to care,
provided accurate predictions for every horse race can be got
from Gypsy Whatshisname.

Young women walk by outdoing each other in their brief shorts,
while men think it funny to show their asses, in a mankini.

Well, who am I too mock?

I’m a politician and the polls say I’ll soon be out on my ear.

I tried to connect with the electorate, which proved difficult,
considering I’m not of the upper, lower or middle classes.

However, on Pride day I was shouted at for wearing a frock, so tried a bikini.

Sod it, I’ll make tracks for Brighton, and wear my daughter's hot pants.

She's a psychologist, away teaching
would-be politicians how to connect with the masses.

I'll take the ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe,
maybe order the captain to sail for Dublin,
where they still welcome immigrants, despite Brexit.

By the way, what was the name of that guy wot got it done,
​whom many called a fool?

So ta ra for now, oh, where did I leave my kiss-and-elect-me-quick hat?

Of course, in Blackpool!