Grimbeau

Days gone grey cloud shrouds.

Not the end of the world, you know.

Beeps off.

Lamplight on.

Mood: Satanic.

Push back cloth cap,

stand on one leg, dodgy ankle,

gaze at yew tree, feel the cold wind,

pack up and go off to no good.

Walk and chew

and suck the graves

from your black nails,

tongue and swallow

a bit of grit.

Spit.

A car goes by.

Lights just go on.

Bins out tonight:

Recyling Day.

You’ve got to laugh.

Goes with the job:

A graveyard wit.