The Blues by LD Wilkinson

so hard living
in suburbia
where tranquillity
comes out
of the trees
and out
of the birds
and the hosepipes
and dribbles
down the street
under ice-cream vans
and into
clean gutters
where even the shit
shines like diamonds

so hard listening
to my neighbour
telling me
you’ve really got to
get rid of that clover

pointing at the stuff
as if clover
is the new black

so I walk
into the city
and find
the smallest darkest
loudest pub
and buy the most
overpriced whisky
and sit
and tap my foot
to the blues
and wonder
what the hell
I’m going to do
about the clover

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