He had boogie-woogie teeth
The colour of whiskey sours,
And he paraded around the town
Like a peacock in a park,
Decked in pinstripes
And stale smoke,
Cheap aftershave and pomp.
He walked with a stylised limp,
Eyes twinkling in lemon juice,
A battered black book
Tucked in his waistcoat
Filled with old loves and losses,
An emerald ring on his finger,
Thin, dyed hair on his head
And a bastardised version
Of glory in his stride.
He was nothing
If not deluded,
A sucker for
Tales never ending,
The joys of battle
In his eyes;
He tinkled as he wrinkled
And he rattled when he died.
