It’s Called ‘Weekend Percussion’

Bring the weekend percussion,

Kids jumping into hedgerows,

The whine of hot tyres
And their whistles of smoke,

Drunk teenage girls
Rewriting pop songs,

Wired dogs growling
As the pub sucks its struts
From the street;

The lemon-eyed gallivants
And tropical fruit cakes,

The funk of kicked bins,

Widows jukebox reminiscing,
Divorcees house-training cats,

A hurly-burly fragmentation,
A ripped chaotic sound collage

Of pumping moxie thumps,
Skunk smells and all you love

If you came not wanting much.

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