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Martin Cook

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Just Hanging Around

 

I just hangs around with me mates.
There ain’t nothing else to do.
There used to be a youth club,
but they couldn’t find nobody to run it.

I can’t hardly move in me home.
I shares a small room with me brother,
but he always seems to have his girl in there,
and me mum tells me to clear out the house.

     Hydrangea blooms in suburban gardens
     and the gatekeeper checks buddleia for nectar.

I can play on me brother’s Playstation
when he’s not in the room with his bird.
Or I can watch a video or telly
but me mum’s man chooses the programmes.

Even if I had a hobby like stamp collecting
or painting, I wouldn’t have no time or peace,
because me half sisters make too much noise
and me mum gives them everything they wants.

      The thrush’s melodious voice bubbles with joy.
      A blackbird stabs for worms then rejoices.

So I just hangs around with me mates
waiting till I leave school at last, then I’ll
get a car and pull the birds,
or go out with a bang like me mate’s brother,

who nicked a Harley Davidson,
then blasted off down the lanes,
cartwheeled over a bridge

and bashed his nut in on a rock.
The filth said he was doing a ton.

      Swans are sedate on the local pond where mallard
      hurl their tail feathers into the air, surface and quack.

 

Page(s) 16-17

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