I decide the world's crazy
as I stare at my feet
I open the curtains
to look out on the street
I switch on the reading lamp
get paper and pen
I sit in my boxers
on the sofa again
No longer a gardener
I hung up my spade
was doing damn well
but my destiny's made
It toiled for ten weeks
from beginning to end
I made heaps of money
but ill sell all to a friend
Christ now I'm in trouble
I've been here before
no income to speak of
wolves queue at the door
Am I bloody mental
Is there something not right
Is the head on my shoulders
as high as a kite
Its Thursday tomorrow
I must find a job
I'll bring minimum pounds home
I'll work with the mob
The sand-dune picture
above on the wall
reminds me of holidays
when the boys were small
We'd go to Kilkeel
or Wexford to camp
even in those days
my head was like champ
It wasn't all of it
or all of the time
just little brain pieces
like mackerel in brine
My boxers are white
the sofa is red
my skin is a tan colour
off with my head.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem