Piano, Piano...

A fellow more fully fucked
Charlie could not fathom.


Billy leaned heavily on two
horribly calloused and
bursitis bloated elbows,
gustily throwing back
Irish car-bombs-
reciting obscure Yeats.

His family, mostly buried,
with cancers riddled,
mowed down by amphetamine fueled
lorry drivers and, gen'rally,
victims to all manner of
spirit rending disaster.

Gen'rous William was-
and then some;

most notably
to the poor, unfortunately homely women
who themsleves threw,
without remnant of shame,
at unsuspecting non-locals
every fortnight or so.

In this saw our sentimental Chas
the trueness of his torn
but undefeated gallantry.

For, much to the surprise
and contradiction of the local
and much muck-minded local folk
Billy intervened in these pathetic scenes
and escorted them home himself.

And though the town was rife
with bawdy suppositions Charles'
few and discreet inquisitions in to
the few facts of these matters
confirmed his bleary, best
and hopeful suspicions-

all the lasses swore ( swearingly)
that nary a hammy hand was
ever laid upon them and
no fumey kisses e'er were attempted-

Old Billy just left them wobbling
at their front stoops with whatever
little dignity that hadn't managed
to throw away quite publicly.