Slim Jim swept Dark Annie
 Like the tide,
“Let’s brave the lies
You and I”, he cried, 
“Should we find ourselves
In the killing fields
Where old values go to die
Where old costs are paid
In powder, narcissism and wine, 
Where cold hearts kiss, 
And no broken mirrors shine.
Where we’re work day bound, 
To the dreams that only
Let us down,
With few Errol Flynn
Or Clarke Gable’s meant,
To rise amongst the crowd”. 
“You’re more Brando anyway”,
she frowned,
“For there are no Abel men
In Caine Town.”

The National Mental Health Service 
Is experiencing technical difficulties 
The notion that everything will be all right
Is on another line. 
Your taxes are better spent
Unwasted on these faculties
But don’t worry your position in the queue
Is fifty five million
Nine hundred, seventy nine thousand,
Nine hundred and ninety
Nine. 
While you wait it might be wise to think
About popping into your local public house
Boost the economy with a drink
You’ve floated this long 
Its doubtful you’ll sink
Here’s some Ed Sheeran while you wait, 
We hope it don’t tip you 
Over the brink. 

Golden hour more a dour
Unpolished brass hue,
Piercing through these little else’s to do
Frozen in the lifetime of a day;
In Small Heath snow and dew. 
Churning the Earth, for what it’s worth,
In treaded role of digging holes,
As young Kabir practises his boles
In bread crumb betterment 
And full view of our safer bet.
Behind laughter battlements
That brace the elements
You make your stand 
Against the shift for 80 quid, 
In your pocket quick, 
That should keep us liq’d
In pubs of brick, 
Til hairy Monday reigns again. 

Hands that kink under their sores,
On the edge of real and imaginary wars,
Use splintered wisdom to barricade the doors, 
As time sharpens the lead of good men worn. 
No man here is to be bested,
Not even by dull aches from winters tested,
Stood on the footings of the trade they've invested,
The ale, the laughter and the soul well rested. 
Underneath a tyrannical sun, 
Time takes no holidays,
and Scrap Iron Men make the most
​of a days ghosts pay. 

The Odds.
They’re always against you.
And when they aren’t, you better act like they are.
Stand your ground. 
Steer the course. 
Eye on the prize. 

There’s nothing
More agonising & sustained, 
Than the long, 
Slow toll 
& ruthless decay 
Of regret 
And remorse.
The gentle, silent erosion of you,
Behind sweet veils of contentment,
Is enough to wear even the strongest
Down into most silent,
Catastrophic suffering,
Deep inside the abyss of their
Most silent
Moments. 

But the Odds, 
The Odds are always there to remind you. 

The Odds are always there to remind you
That glory is not at your fingertips,
But on the other side of the eternal
Mud crawl.

Once you've smashed the false window
From which you see yourself
Awe will be inspired,
Tears will be shed,
But the Odds will remain
Like a bully beating you over your soul.
The sting of the struggle will be bearable
But the rage of regret is everlasting. 

The odds are always there to remind you that
The other side holds
Rewards and riches far beyond 
Any material thing your narrow material mind
Can comprehend. 

The Odds are always there to remind you that 
You're not subject to one
Race, sex, colour or creed.
That you'll prevail
In spite of those things.

The Odds are always there to remind you
Of what it really means, 
What it really feels like,
What it really means

To be alive. 

The Odds. 
They’ll love to remind you of them. 
They’ll revel in the maths,
These masters of sugar and sand. 

Your job is to laugh,
Loud like a lion,
At the thought of someone bringing up something 
So irrelevant and insignificant 
As The Odds.