I was walking down the aisle
In my local corner shop
I was thinking about drinking
Down an ice cold soda pop
When I chanced upon a counter
Laid with such delicious green
Tasty leafy little morsels
‘Bout the finest I had seen
Well I had to have some lettuce
For my dinner plate tonight
With some oil and juicy lemon
I could make it taste just right
So I grabbed a bag and stuffed it
With the finest greens I saw
Weighed the tasty little bastards
98 grams nothing more
Stuck the price tag on the plastic
Made my way back down the aisle
Paid with cash and made my exit
Gave the ajumma a smile
Strolling down the little alleys
On my way to flat sweet flat
Smiling broadly, striding widely
Dodged the ugly alley cat
Climbed the stairs to the apartment
Went inside and closed the door
Unpacked all my evening’s shopping
When my jaw just hit the floor
Saw the lettuce wrapped up snugly
In it’s plastic oh so nice
Read the label prayed to Jesus
As I recognised the price
Those three numbers all were sixes
Telling me just what I feared
Knees were knocking fingers shaking
Understanding quickly neared
Through my purchase I’d been chosen
By that hairy nasty beast
Satan dearest lord of darkness
Stamped his message on my feast
Now I sit here in the darkness
As the bag begins to shake
Leaves are glowing red not green now
Beg the lord my soul to take
I’ve been cornered in my kitchen
By the devil’s seraphim
To be honest my poor future
With Old Nick is looking grim
I was tempted by the lettuce
Sucked in by it’s hellish charms
Now I’m doomed to spend eternity
In the Tempter’s fiery arms….

Not my nationality.

I’ll just go bowling…

I heard it through the grapevine

The car wash is shut

Crossed the road

As the third truck arrived

I couldn’t help but stare

Rubbernecking

My stroll slowed

Water pumped 

And I carried on

Resisted the urge

And still I check online

No news yet

Too late for sorry
He sits alone and unloved
A fallen angel

And the smell of England green,

Home again and wet.

And condemned to Kazakhstan.

Putin’s “Heavy loss.”

Alexander Solzhenitsyn dead at 89 years old.

I clicked the link, face falling

Champagne back in fridge.

Stuffed into purple shine

Forklifted down to the groundlings

Your screech turns to honey

Standing precarious, tottering

A wound-up rag dolly

Treacle oozing from your lips again

The crowd wanting you bad

Just one slip of the hat and bam

Elbow flies then forearm swings

You waver slightly and return

To form still no worse for wear

Your syrup sweeter and thicker

Sticks as the clockwork runs down

Your beehive intact

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Amy Winehouse gives Glastonbury her best shot: