Shabby Shabby, Niamh & Cycling from Lacock to Chippenham

Shabby Shabby

Shabby bed freezer
Shabby scalp diseased, peels,
Shabby floor turtles, kicked tufts of dirt.
Looky looky, wife or husband, thinkst thou dost not
Live shabbily?

On shabby paycheques, with monsters in closets,
Shabby pornography in pockets, late teens
Degrading shabby lust Kafka cakes
Plonked on the table, shabby table.
Shabby shabby liveth we in shabby hospitality.

O, ode to shabby, for shabby are we
Shabby, shabby
Shabby, shabbily.


Niamh

Niamh she was, and grand she was,
A little locked she was, but she rocked
On the tin whistle and waffled on she did.
Not naïve she was, a great girl she is,
I miss Niamh, even if the others din’t.



Cycling from Lacock to Chippenham

Alone I bike back whence I came accompanied
And see sights sorrowed slightly by shadows’ gall.
From slimming sun-sprawls on quiet, uneven green
Across the fields buttercupped with Spring mien.

And people did not pass me, nor I them, as I
Was lost in heavy reverie perceptively,
Amidst hillocks and memories of Lucy, riding,
Close behind from the weir to the Red Lion.

The Bell was closed, The George was closed
And we did not venture to The Rising Sun;
We did not venture far beyond,
We did not venture far beyond.