Crawl

Die Deutschen.
Their idea of a pub crawl is a sit-down meal
in a bar
then eine oder zwei pubs
and that's pretty much all.

I don't adhere to the usual sticky labels, the
damp dismantled sunbeds burnt round that
multi-bordering border, hoisting a cultural smokescreen
fanned with the towels of unofficial reservation.

Sure, as a nation, they like order. So what?

I nearly killed an old Helga crossing a pedestrian crossing
on red; oblivious to foreigners who chew gum at rules,
she assumed it was green. She was not so quick on her
feet as me.

We flame-grilled them at football, but it was a one-off
or at best, medium rare.

They do have a sense of humour
but it's under-developed

like my ability to care
like my ability to do something
about my smoker's cough.

And to end this impromptu polemic, I should tell you
their work ethic is not dissimilar to ours. They leave their
zing, their lives, in the boots of their cars, tread water, crawl
just
enough to not prompt a job loss, a crawl to the job centre,
a crawl up yet another boss.

"To booze" does not mean "to beat the clock"
and drunken punch-ups consequently number less

and they're nice on their own patch

but I must confess
no two ways, no intellectual maze:

their pub crawls are gash.