the rain drums his fingers impatiently
along the length of a blue dusting lung busting puckered roof
and fingers the gaps where once there was glass
wire veined, designed to resist
a boot, a fist a flick of the wristy bone
trebuchet yet now carpeting this concrete nest
of surly youth in a crystal expression of boys
when they are bored
nowhere better then than this Park Drive smokeasy
for the bad ones who will always try their best,
after mocking words and a quart of cider,
to cop a feel of the big bird’s breasts