If the bovver boots don’t getcha, there’s thin trees to hang your hope by.

Chimneys of chagrin are closing in, coughing like an English terrace on match day. Boys playing home or awry.

On yer bike, son, blimey, and let’s be ‘aving you. We’ll say no more about it.

But count yourself lucky; next time blind eyes won’t be so kindly turned.

Long lessons have to be learned,
trumpeted conceit curbed,
and timid trust earned.