The ChangeThey used to go ice skating.
Indoors under summer sun;
Outdoors under silent snow:
She used to lead him by the hand -
But that was long ago.
They used to laugh for hours.
He would make up stories
And she would play along:
But when it came to their story
The ending worked out wrong.
They used to drink together,
One or two under the moon.
But with the baby’s arrival
And turned his drinking suicidal.
They used to dine together
Candlelight and wine,
Rib-eye and t-bone.
But he drowned out his appetite
And left her to eat alone.
They used to travel the world
But he began catch at the bars.
So she would take their daughter
To build sandcastles,
And return to find him a little smaller.
She could feel him slipping away,
As the whiskey started to win
And the drink started to tell.
Change came sure as the tide
And it left him but a shell.
They used to talk about the change
And he ramble speak incoherent
About the pressures of a man.
And she would do her best to listen,
When beer goes down too easy
I find other rituals to amuse me.
I partook of afternoon tea
But that dram of assam was measly,
And I only take my coffee Irishly;
So I instead I settled on the brandy.
I tried to play the twelve bar blues
By putting on my walking shoes.
But the third bar brought bad news
As it was happy hour for booze.
So as evitable inebriation ensues,
I drink with only time to lose.
I joined myself a gambling ring
To try a hand at poker while drinking
But whiskey slows your thinking
And I walked away on a shoe string.
Gin rummy was very disappointing
Without a drop in the offering.
The only game I can really play
Is to drink my every care away:
I can go all night and go all day,
From Sunday through to Saturday.
I don’t care what Dean Martin say:
This is what I call amore.
The streets are wide with swagger;
Raucous laughter is the fanfare
Of the soldiers of hedonism.
This perfumed infantry patrols the bars,
Watched by bouncers in doorways,
Former servicemen with guarded salutes.
Johnny’s dropping j-bombs;
Richie’s sinking the navy rum;
Stevo isn’t missing a shot.
The boys are out for blood tonight:
But real heroes befriend before fight.
Waging war with their wages,
Counting casualties in empty bottles,
Earning war stories under neon skies.
Blue collars and white collars
But not a dog-tag to be seen
For the bawdy heroes of Friday night.
Bobby ditched his bird at The Tap;
Gav glassed a geezer at the Geese;
Davey used a sink as a dunny.
The lads want trouble and won’t be denied
But real heroes aren’t born of pride.
Gniles Brody III, agent of the Royal Gnomic Treasury, gives his personal account of how his perfect crime went horribly wrong.
A short story in four acts, featuring the fetishisation (ish) of stationery and the moral decline of the corporation (to an extent).
'Some folk, they say he's looking to get revenge on those who did for his lady. Others say he's just out for revenge on those who done him in. Still other folk swear he's an agent of the devil hisself. Step inside, stranger, and I'll tell you all about The Gunslinger.'