Burning

Poem

Seems a while from the Sunday night,

The nervousness and thrills of fright.

St. Denis and Sheffields sons,

The threat of Roxannes and of handguns.

And now, I’ve realised, how I’ve been,

Ridiculously cocky, quotidienne obscene.

Burning these bridges, sex and not,

Whilst ruining my body with wine and gut-rot.

Il faut qu’on change, nous-mêmes, les jeunes,

Stop the hangovers, the lying and the gurns.

Draw the line, turn the leaf and the rest

of the much said, try and be the best.

Be the best.