Chorus:
Warm wind rushes at the dog walkers and dries
Before fuss can be made, brightly, as if new -
They will walk past the fuss factory like Lowry babes
But for now, they are mute. What to do?
-
Keep your head down, keep your distance
Don't give in to final demands or insistence
There are people in the Social Club, never been before
The enemies are closer than the green lit exit door.
-
I saw the chrome plated cast of a blob in the corner of the bathroom on top of the toilet brush handle and I remembered that we were all locked in now. All of us finding pleasures and treasures in the simplest of things if we didn't live in the North where the offies closed at ten.
Second verse.
Third verse.
Then we were all in it together again. The speakeasies in Hethersett, Wymondham and Frome were begging askance of R numbers; there was poetry in the air amongst the dogshitbins where the virus must thrive and the security guard in Tescos can't.
Chorus
Some cat plonked itself down on my legs as I was in a house. Fireworks still going off in the blackness of another social media night, not even scaring the hounds, let alone the pussies. A child with an angry father has used his only recourse to justice on a teacher who has seen it all before.
We are all equal in the eyes of the dogshitbins.
