After knocking ’em dead at the College of Ed.
we head into town for soft lights and hard liquor.
At the Cavendish there are ladies galore
on the glass-eyed floor, where Mike, John and I
stand together, the more easily to be recognised.
And we are, but by Ginger and his mates.
Steelworkers, hard as nails and big as foothills.
‘Yer supposed to be comedy, make us laugh then.’
They fire their six-shooters at our feet.
We dance, they laugh. They buy the drinks,
we laugh, and so on, and so bloody on.
At chucking-out time, the roadies, as ever,
have copped off and taken the van,
leaving Comedy to trudge home in a rain that stings.
(ii)
Sometimes I dont smell so good.
Its not that I dont care about
personal hygiene. I do. Its just that
sometimes the body catches up on me.
Like when Im out all day and
refuse to pay for a wash and
brush up at the local municipal
on lack of principle. And hiding
away in some unfamiliar un
kempt saloon I console myself
theres no such thing as bad breath.
All breath is good. And sweat
means the body functions as it
should. I drink my bitter.
Put a pork pie to the knife.
Far sweeter than the stink of
death, is the stink of life.