At half past three I staggered out of The Criterion
As a newt and homeless, with all my money gone.
Hessle Road so busy, and always smelled of cod.
There stood the lollipop man, nine years older than god.
A big “stop” sign, a strong white coat trimmed electric blue.
I tugged his sleeve and asked him, “Should I go across with you? ”
Some people never joke at all. He must have thought me thick.
He murmered, “No. I’ll manage son. You see I’ve got this stick.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem