Because the Picnic Box
Has sold out
Of strawberry ice cream
Would you rather be
Front of house
Or are you better off
Working in the back-kitchen
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Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Because the Picnic Box
Has sold out
Of strawberry ice cream
Would you rather be
Front of house
Or are you better off
Working in the back-kitchen
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The hotel does have ice cream
But the kitchen isn’t open
So I can’t have any
Also that might
Explain why
The coffee is lacking
What it takes, to reach
Those dizzy heights
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The blue sky is clouding over
Their words are not my words
Neither can I read their music
But I can close my eyes
I can feel the breeze
Wafting through my fine mop of hair
And I can feel for those not with me
That is my discipline
To think to write a letter
Yet not a letter for posterity
Instead a letter to hold on to love
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Last night’s disappointment at football
Will take quite a while
To wear off
It’s probably the end
Of that team as we’ve known it
Already I have learnt
They were the second oldest team in the league
There is a sadness
And a dullness
Also an apprehension
Instead of an excitement
This isn’t how the first day
Ought to be
Yet doubts always surface
At the beginning of an adventure
And so the emptiness
The loneliness of leaving you behind
Brings a hollowness
To the car's interior
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I don’t belong here
What with my dodgy hips
And all these sloping pavements
Which also annoy the hell
Out of my nervous thighs
Someone once said
That Lincolnshire was flat
Well not on the wolds it’s not
All over the place there are tricks
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