How long, ref?
¶ 1
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Hot tarmac black as Stout
Bubbling in an old drum
¶ 2
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Heady aroma of burnt liquorice,
Dark coffee & cake
¶ 3
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Every smooth drive a goalkick further
From the fresh green pitches of youth.
¶ 4
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Uncomfortable uncle-dancing in a suit under flashing lights
With a pint in each hand at a wedding
¶ 5
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The curled corners of corned beef sandwiches
Cut into triangles at Christenings
¶ 6
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The sober, sombre black of funerals, sensible as referees,
Pain numbed less each time the head is hung
¶ 7
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Three shrill blasts on a final whistle
Then enveloped by pine in soil or fire.
¶ 8 Leave a comment on verse 8 0 We count the years in seasons.
17
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