A friend lost his job. We went out and got hammered (drunk).
Went to drown sorrows with Martin P Crace
who'd lost his job and was staring into the
abyss, it looked him straight in the face.
Cheap beer in a badly decorated room
and talk turned to getting smashed to take
minds away from the impending doom.
Sang drunken blues into the early hours
and danced with the black girls down at
the Moss Side community centre.
Chased off by the black boys, jealous that
white men would have balls bigger than
theirs and move lithe like mountain lions.
Martin got lucky, Denise, she was older,
pesters him still, he'll call now it's colder.
I was thankful that I could walk after trying
to help a friend drink himself to death one
night with the last of my diminishing funds
that were not meant for entertainment,
and even more thankful that I didn't end
a night in a strange place, house, woman's
embrace, threatening to make me bend
and using some implement to humiliate,
dehumanise, she sounded like a real lunatic,
you got lucky there, made him suffer before.
I bade you goodnight and meandered home
and thanked god that I made it in one piece.
Summer turned to Autumn that night,
And I began to hibernate in my rented room,
Turned against the cold front, until the
spring returns and all things reproduce again.