Geezer
High-vis hero with a low-res brain,
Master of nothing but minor wrist strain.
Got a tribal tattoo and a lease-hire car,
Bruv thinks he’s Bronson down the local wine bar.
Tommy is crying, what a sight to behold,
A counterfeit king in a sweater of gold.
A tabloid warrior, Daily Mail dread,
Collecting opinions he’s never quite read.
Jaw like a rabbit snare, a real custard cream,
Living his grandest ket-hole dream.
Chin like a teardrop, neck like a flute,
Screaming “who are ya?” in a synthetic suit.
A tactical titan of the Sunday League pitch,
But his bark is a whimper, and his step mam’s a bitch.
Block-A spam fists! Cocaine spine!
Counting his conquests one pint at a time!
Sticky-palm statesman, a wandering hand,
Least subtle player in all of the land.
Copping a feel while he’s slurring our name,
A budget-shelf creep with no sense of shame.
A fumble of fingers, a grab at the hip,
Then he’s back to the bar for a vertical dip.
Thinks he’s a legend, but he ain’t working-class,
A middle-class actor with his paws on our ass.
An over-gelled geezer, The Sun’s headline spit,
Tries to look ‘ard whilst having a fit.
Loudest in the room till the room starts to tilt,
A duvet of ego but it’s just his ma’s quilt.
Sure, don’t mind him, he’s just a noise,
One of them, slicked-back, fragile wee boys.
Dear Anomie,
This is one hell of a piece... a proper mic drop. Pure Beira’s Bothy venom, tight as a snare drum and twice as mean. It’s full-on character assassination as an art form, and I was howling at the quater moon.
“Custard cream,” “synthetic suit,” “Daily Mail dread” ... absolutely brilliant. There’s this weirdly affectionate edge to it too, like you’re roasting the whole absurd circus of human behavior.
Not just “Tommy is crying” ... my tears were going from laughing my ass off.
Hope you’re doing well.
High Moon blessings on your night... may your words stay sharp and your heart stay true.
Steve