A whole flock of ugly ducklings
off to paint the town brown.
They totter on their pigeon toes
in their mutton-dressed-as clothes
cut way too short for this weather.
Brevity is the sincerest form of wit,
not wisdom. “Where’s the way out
from this station, the exit, love?” they ask me.
“Where’s my kalamazoo, my vuvuzela,
my whistle?” they ask each other,
hullabalooing towards the Underground.
Where’s my hunting horn, my rifle, I ask myself,
just a bitter old maid who was left on the shelf.
Comments
insertponceyfre... | November 22, 2010 - 15:14
where's my rifle - I'll remember that next time I'm stuck at liverpool st in the rush hour
I really liked this
SundaysChild | November 22, 2010 - 19:19
Love the tone. Good work.
maggyvaneijk | November 22, 2010 - 22:50
What a great piece! The flats in my building constantly get rented out for hen nights and stag dos that seem to go out of their way to paint the town "brown". You nailed my feeling in this poem.