We drive along and we try not to crash
Though there are so many others to hit
We hide behind the beard and moustache
Of friendliness, like Santa the Misfit
Into my thoughts you still do sometimes flit
Perhaps I should keep myself busier
But wait, I work all day and work all night
The weekend’s the hardest of all, for sure
Like overpriced footballers, we can’t score
Any more and we don’t enjoy the clash
Of limbs and swords and shields, or losing it
Write poetry, accepting we are poor
Join groups, meet new people, go on a march
To save Iraq, Iran, maybe Tibet
Sat 20 June 2009
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