The Harpic Brothers are clean round the bend;

they live in a house at the end

of our street, with a kitchen full of chip fat

and a garden full of rust,

a Mam on medication

who they wheel down to the pub.

Albert’s the one with the gravestone teeth

and hair that stands up

like a cartoon cat on heat.

Trevor is the brains of the team

his tattoos all spelt right.

They patrol the local neighbourhood

in the pitch black still of night

singing at the full fat moon

until the first damp crack of light

spills it’s milky residue

over pavements parks and streets

and the Harpics stagger home to bed,

beat a temporary retreat

from a world that slings its barbs and sneers

from passing cars and kids

on mountain bikes who batter doors

and clatter dustbin lids;

hatred passed from parent down

to offspring like a gift.

While Albert plays Dean Martin

To send his Mam to sleep

Trevor stands guard with a cricket bat

their castle walls to keep

free of interlopers, free from prying eyes

as his brother and their mother

sleep safely side by side.