A passerby poignantly asks him “time’s kick off forra Swans en?”
from the sunlight under the unplugged floodlight,
And two red-wearing, Forest-decorated bohemians pass me reflecting,
probably forgetting the move that damned our shouting legs.
Going down, going down, going do-own.
Today you are jaggedly unrecognizable,
Your face is indecipherable, despite screaming.