Alma

Mary the Catholic Queen, would not let saliva, be spat into the spleen, for son James's baptismal, common for left footers, and Scots at that time, I stood by an unlit lampin, waiting for my wife, she never turns to dreams, such a palaver, waiting by the Tweed, like a Sunday chancer, a tree a lamp an uncertain weave, near Stirling, what a fucking heave, thinking of Alexander Trocci, his New York leather jacket, and Jock Stein's mate, who ran the Italian cafe,' and mourned each day, Who brought us down, i wanted to shout.