Sometimes I wish I was back in Nicosia
smoking the wacky-backy with the lads
and watching Sandy getting tarted up.
Night on the town. Blood on the streets.
Razor-blades stitched into the lapels
of his crushed-velvet tartan jacket.
Headcase but funny with it. Not like Fitzy.
Now we’re talking nasty bastards.
Four brothers and half a brain between them.
He only knew three questions:
Who are you lookin at? What did you say?
Are you takin the piss?
Simple questions that no one ever got right
because only Fitzy knew the answers:
(a) Beerglass (b) Boot (c) Head-butt.
Put on more charges than the Light Brigade.
Next thing, he marries a local girl.
Maria Somethingopolis. Big name. Big family.
It won’t last long, we said. And it didn’t.
Took three of them, though. Stabbed him
in the back of a car, then set fire to it.
Cyprus One, England Nil. Mainly, though,
I remember the good times. Sound mates,
cheap bevvy. Moonlight on the Med. End of story.