“Then us’ll all ha’ etten thee

That’s wheear we get us ooan back”

 

Happiness

Is walking through the drizzle

Without thy’s coat,

Home

Is a teapot mashin

Ready for Mary Jane

Who wanders the moors

Ash crisping in her fingers

Tabacco flavouring her lips.

 

Happiness

Is a sliver of sun in summer,

And I pray to reach you

Before the worms sliver hence,

This is puckers, mush,

I appreciate — am enamoured by—

You:

The windswept hills

Thundering upon us return

 

Happiness

Is these cobbled streets

Ascending amongst silver clouds,

Heralded by the birds’ chime,

Starlight bursting out.

It is a dream, a premonition —

Ne’er as queer as folk

Whom are huddled nesh

In a corner, No benefit to be felt

 

should they gander. Happiness

Is the absence of light,

When the last titivating breath

Of the Blackpool Illuminations is exhaled,

And the wood is int hole,

A plate of shit wi sugar on in hand

 

And, as always, the drizzle pours down.