I used to think you were just a mean drunk,

a man who at the end

of the long arduous night

would pop open a tin

of cheap

nasty liquor

and sink them in order,

cans one

through to eventual six

and then to whom resentment

at the world, the sign of the angry

Capitalist, the dead on sarcasm boiled

in rich memory

of having been shafted by the poor,

the meagre and the deprived…

in your greedy eyes,

in your hard-up soul