Stumpy prized open one bleary eye, he studied the glass-flattened gob.
His mind circled down
From the weekend retreat of the gods where he'd gone
To doorstop an interview. And frowned.
You mendicant halfwit, wotya mean? Coffee and fags be damned;
The counter opens at eight, go home! Go beg from your mother; scram !
And he dropped the eyeball back into its bloodshot hole.

Yet he'd barely muttered the words when he sighed
And slid back the glass in reprieve. He was a mendicant halfwit himself
And you couldn't blame mugs for the headache
That came with a thump from a tree.
OK then mate, I could do with a poke from a coffin nail myself,
But Death's at the door, and I've taxes to pay,
Can I shout you some crumpets and tea?

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