British Summer Time, a poem

Just in the Museum Gardens in York with my translucent skin shining with Piz Buin and lying on my M & Co pashmina with my sarong rolled up to the knees and my fat tits falling out of my strap top while three old women gaze in dis-proval from the shade of a tree.

My brogues and socks and Coca Cola lie beside me.

I hope I get a tan and for a short time

and a cheap rhyme

get to forget that I’m a Brit in summer time.

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