Calculus creepy croaks a loaf,
gamble with diligence, excuse with repose
sunday afternoon-summer in jeans, bobby dylan, the kinks

and my pal bought-sold this three-wheeler,
bond i think it was called,
chris with a military line in jeans,
firm fixed, line crawling down his leg
he's  looking embarrassingly at me
 his mum's a fearsome ironer;
we sat on the edge of our chairs
being three teenage boys,
on an uncomfortable sunday afternoon, with doors closed doors

some say they lived n died
and came to nothing
from swerve of bray
a broody serf-bound
poet naturally absurd

we wander around
always end up and down
in tears

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