There’s a new branch of Primark opening in the Mall,
where the smell of polyester and the shock of static
bring their synaesthetic to the masses,
who believe Wall’s sausages have ears
and Freetrade coffee is made from ground cockroaches.
And if my thoughts of you sound somewhat judgemental
- if there are not enough Air Miles to get bladdered by the Adriatic -
still you have a sig tune as distinctive as Shirley Bassey’s,
though your feather boa grows more tatty with the passing years
and your grand finale fast approaches.
Oh, love that never was promoted to the Premier League.
Oh, lips that only kissed those that kissed the Vauxhall Cup.
Any interest I ever had in you was mere intrigue
at the way you came back from each kick, hushed as a slush-eyed pup.