Macken’s Van

Macken is fucking terrifying,

but the blue-white van houses delights

and is, anyway, the only place in walking distance.

Up towards Lyle’s, then on up,

as though you were heading for the Carnacaville Road

or the road that had Boden’s on it – not Station, the other one.

Macken has a pair of Alsatian dogs,

sad cats and a sadder wife;

their house is like a junk yard,

but the van stocks Meanies that he’ll sell you for 2p a pack

because they’re past their use-by date,

also Tip Tops that blue your tongue.

You’d not want to be there when night fell, like,

or to tell him you’re a Protestant.

Don’t tell him you’re a Protestant.

But the Meanies and that are great.