Despite his jocular eyes his beard is grey.
He’s wrapped up cocooned in his goonie
Still on the Silk Cuts still dying of coffee.
At night he says he can never not be angry,
He gambles away the days, stays safe when he’s lonely.
He’s embarrassed by his conquests, his stories.
He could be legendary – a hero of anti-epics
If it wasn’t for his stubbornness, his histrionics.
He lists guitar solos and drum beats in his foggy solace,
“There’s no one else now," he says, "no chance.”