Let them win the jackpot.
Something to stop them describing
the bite of every breed of dog.
A hot potato
where Middle England's ammo
is fired with shallow joy -
Solutions splashed on the back
of picture postcards
selling the seaside's decline -
Where rain talk is favoured over
blistering sunshine-
where ghosts now roam empty halls
that once stood host to tea room dances,
gentle kisses from doting lovers
And django lead second chances
and somewhere my daydreams
get swept up in all of this.
I'm sentimental, you're instrumental
in the middle of every week
let them win
(or give me a pair of headphones.)
