Poster boy for disappointment
With a penchant to loose and with my glib, faded tattoos I’ll be the poster boy for disappointment. Balding, forcing maudlin conversation with every girl I meet, I’ll seek to keep up bleak appearances, drinking down supermarket own- brand tin-can lager in my local car park, leering at every passing darling, I subscribe to the fine publication named ‘Readers Wives’. Fringe top shelf reading, feeding my receding libido. My eyes writhe through the pages of the free papers, raging at the excesses of the accepted classes. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and as I hold aloft in a pint glass grasp, a toast, to toast to the last, I’ll dole a doze to the mid afternoon, to fill my blank dreams with the fate to which I’ll soon be consumed, Resting for the last time beneath the infinite canopy, lamenting the fallacy of buying fags, when they’re free from the floor, Dying a wiser man; happier than you’ll ever understand.