George Anderson

Posted: January 15, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags: ,

Brains

 

We didn’t call him Brains

in a totally ironical sense

because the bloke

was a gun builder

& street smart

& a passable surfer.

 

What concerned us

was his choice of women

which was from an early age

questionable at best.

 

Let’s just simply say,

that he allowed his dick

to do his thinking for him.

 

Take his latest foray

to bring home the bacon

to get his shit together again

in Mount Isa

to save enough for a deposit

for a home

& then return to the Gong.

 

After a year

of a bloody hard earn

in the mines

Brains returns

with empty pockets

 

save for a hardened sheila

with four feral kids

 

who has a bent for

4 litre cask wine

in the early afternoon

& stray quiver bone.

 

 

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