The Drunken Lyricist

We met that grey dull evening on the east shore.
Roaring round the bend he came, flat out
at fifteen miles an hour, and stopped. We had to shout
till he turned off his engine. It's going to pour
it looks like: me. Oa, I'm haardly cancerned
thee night wi weather, man! he said, flat cap askew.
Gap-toothed smile. Torched cheeks. Eyes' Atlantic blue.
Hiv you seen any? Weemun? Whisky burned
its golden road in him, and he would search.
's that wun, man? – the shore's dark speck.
Not waiting a reply, through the bright wreck
of that grey evening, he roared off, with a lurch.
His tractor almost reared on its back tyres.
Fifteen miles an hour flat out, parched by amber fires.
 
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