Viking Vainly

Do you mind if I take a chip ou' of your car?
Yeah, before, you was Tennyson Crescent, but now
it's jus' me, Viking Vainly - the Dishpond of Slough,
rides the grey edge of town where the Jap junkyards are.
You can hoot all ya like, ma'am. It's Vike an' his Harley
your wing mirror nemesis fifteen more mile
so sit back, 'joy the ride, lessav bi' of a smile?
till we get to the Crown for a "glass of th'old barley"...

Oh, you'll stop all righ'. You an' me both knows you'll do it.
You'll walk towards me with those Bedfordshire boobs
and you'll tell me, as I'm wiping paint off me tubes,
you " spect paymint in full for the demmidge done to it! ".
And you'll stan' there with hands on yer 'ips, and yer lipstick
in place, and your skir' blowing wrap run' your knees,
and you'll see this back crossboned. Then, 's you're mutterin'
"He's
got a dem nerve!" I'll turn face you, holden' the dipstick
and shoot "Think she's wanting a fill-up - you reckon?"
half-smile in a way that makes you think "he's guessed"
and you'll go kind of quiet and shy and impressed
while across the Crown carpark the willow-wisps beckon;
then I'll wipe my 'ands down on the sides of me leathers
as you're standen there gazing at this flowin' mane,
and you'll suddenly feel the cold pass, like a skein
of wild geese in the halflight, a flurry of feathers
down, down past your back in the dusk, and you'll cough.
Then you'll suddenly wish that your voice sounded older;
still thrill to the weight of me arm on your shoulder,
's I takes you insides for a Skol and a scoff.

And yeah, that's where you hear about Vainly the Viking,
how when he left Angels, he left them to mourn;
how the world and is wife's not worth more of 'is scorn
since he took to the lonely road, up-country biking;
now I'm telling you these, and how I works me wages
up there in Northumbria, cuttin' up logs,
getting up with the bitterns, an' t' bed with the frogs,
and how Viking horizons' not changed much these ages:
Still seashore and sea mists and tufts of marsh-mallow,
and fights out in places that you've not heard tell,
and helpin' old biddies sleep out the cold spell,
logging up them old houses up there past the fallow.

Then you listen to me throwing poetry atcha
Coz yeah, up the marshes the evenings are long;
all the while the child starts in your stomach like song.
till you're sheltering fallen sky under his stature,
in a room, matters not where, or under the rushes,
fertile English soil for the invader to plough,
tracking back to the "Give Way" just south-west of Slough
your slipped hand in th'encounter, now miles beyond blushes;
some creation of cormorant, heron or curlew
skating lonely horizons, and god-silhouette
with sky-saga hair, lifting voluptuous net
aloft, no other fierce intent than to uncurl you...

But somewhere, some ancestral cries 'ave me heading
blood-sniffing up on to the slip road due West,
go in peace, ma'am, we both knows this all's for the best:
here's a two-fingered wave as I leave you for Reading.