I leave the cafe with the taste of ash and bitter leather in my mouth.
I’m siting in a taxi, attempting to untie the raging knot;
Perhaps it is my temperament;
Perhaps I’m aging;
But comes a time, my friend, to cut out all the rot.
It’s not your fault, perhaps; they must have smacked you round the head at school.
But I’ve no time for salaried bravado or twisted notions of some alpha male;
Or narrow-minded treatise,
Or self satisfied advice;
My time is not for fools – and in its fullness, fools wiil not prevail.
– o –