Fags For Slags - Poem by Ivan Pine
They sat there against the copshop wall
Their eyes were flat and in its thrall,
Were Molongs finest, fags in hand
All in all a desolute band.
Lies came readily to their lips
As ever ready as Freudian slips,
With faces set with base desire
Wanting to drag all down, to mire.
A fag was lit to relieve the stress
Of their guilt but no confess,
Was passed around from mum to child
And irrelevant was it strong or mild.
After this sad promenade of waste
The mouth was left with bitter taste,
In those who saw and stood upright
Fags for slags, left to the night
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