If you must wear the face of shocked indignation

be warned, it is not a look that suits you,

or indeed flatters the features that are surrounded

by the years of hard drinking

or perhaps moaning twisted forceful tears

you have wrenched out of those crow lined,

feather scattered eyes. When you believe in your ugly

mind that what you say at four thirty in the long

cold festive driven afternoon is anything but crass,

that your gutter waiting mouth, spit and drawl

running from the side of your lop sided lips