Ode to Withnail

Outside’s my private kingdom

with everyone still sleeping;

Breathing in air and exhaling Sambuca.

It’s awful out, but it could be worse.

 

Cagey, surreptitious steps:

I’m walking the tight-rope to the shop on the corner, balancing over puddles of glass.

Bringer of non-proverbial bacon,

Keeper of the carbs.

 

I’ll buy this morning’s coffee hot and over-priced-

The sink’s still drowning all the mugs.

Innocent bystanders hurled into the deepend

with fairy liquid and the lone rice grains that got away

 

Tomorrow will be different to today,

If I don’t sew them into one

And anyway, tomorrow has to come.

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