Nine - Poem by Steve Nestor
Eyes full of pies, cold air slapping my face.
Steaming along but tip toeing with grace.
Gliding as smooth as a three legged race.
Legs are well-oiled, although they're no more.
I focus on nothing, whilst seeing four
Identical wives, each one I adore.
Cut in half I slalom, staggering through
Brahms and Liszt's dulcet blend: now we argue.
Crying and shouting, laughing 'I love you'.
Fuelled by wine and plentiful pitchers.
Hushed up giggles and deafening whispers.
Craving for nibbles, biscuits and kippers!
Five minutes tops from the pub to our pad.
Felt more passions than the folk of Baghdad.
Roaming as far as a hoary nomad.
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