The devoid of feeling, empty processed pea tin rattles down the street and

pushed along by the banshee like eruption of winds

that beat, beat…beat against the window

pleading to be let in, the tin can, the remnants

of its former glory long since spilled on the Bootle battlefield

shows off its ability to send

out a message in Morse Code to anybody willing to listen.

The signal is kept going, the odd momentary lapse

where the wind blasts it up against the side of half