Recreation Ground

Recreation Ground

Brown ale, parlour sweet,
tipple of grannies, of codgers,
honour passed from the older lads,
fingers gilded with nicotine, oiled by
the innards of Beezers and Triumphs.
Hands warm (we imagine)
from the talcummed secrets
under their girlfriend's shirts.
Girls we desire approximately
(denied the inside information),
after school Bardots, pink-lipped,
pouting, startled with mascara,
riding pillion in stockings and heels,
skirts right up to their bums.

Whirled perfect by alcohol,
we fall to the grass in the dark,
laugh like children, swear like men,
grip our piece of planet
while the girls' faces flare brighter
as they smoke and jive to a transistor,
hiss of rock'n'roll on the tank of a bike.