Wobbling stinking
'long the lane
coughing
Charlie felt his glib heart go lank.
Pubs were fun enough-
decent grub,
a snug and amber whiskey warm,
something to do
with throat and eyes,
well worn wood and,
most nights, music,
folk in fettle fine
(and otherwise)-
in that,
of course,
was much to thank.
'Twas the thought throng
on the road home alone
that jigged and droned
through Charlie's pickled noodle.
An echo
of those so strange waves
which washed 'round him
whilst sidled sat he
on elbow perched,
wiped cleanly
anything approaching smug
from his unshaven asymmetric mug,
as over cool-wet cobbles
he scuffed and lurched.
Women had kept him,
always,
chiefly crazed,
a state of too constant titillation
while remained he
mournfully
without a steady muse,
a condition of amazed frustration
not without comedic hues.
Often he'd silently recite
a wimpish, waking-dream flirt-
" Come closer, sassy lass.
Come, be a goodly wench,
offer me a dram to drink-
and give those lovely jugs a jiggle!
Swing that simple skirt
and from that thrilling throat
let loose a girlish giggle!
Lash me, lash me, love,
with waggish winks til
my poor, parboiled brain can't think..."
Such mordant,
dismal internal drivel
oft ended with an abrupt,
dismissive snort or belch
that hadn't properties of squelch.
For clownish Charlie
could not rightly play
the self-righteous rogue.
Such bawdy boldness
seemed false as hell,
a crock, a scam,
a mountebank's wordly shell,
a sham 'round a long held
peasant-pious, pleasant dream
that his simple bed
could really blessed be.
See,
the bigger part
of our chum's heart-
(a vault of yen
with mandarin runes etched)
though almost
atheistic brung up
remained quite hung-up
on the near-fetched
dear idea of sanctity
in union.
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