Adam

She has such giving ways, brings me Bollinger, on my birthday, what can we do alone, without the sense, of living out our time, wine pours down my face, it’s like a Christening, she slices the Angel cake, are we here or gone, without a penny to spin, laugh at the unknown, sample the waste, our jellied lives crowned, when called upon to pray, we roll and pitch astern, like ships on the sea, will this yard atone, for the greatest of days, awash with pay slips, it’s easy to celebrate, her rubbish in the spirit.