A glass of wine..the cusp of flowers...the Skids...rampant...singing...Into the Valley...punk rock in the handbags of old men...buses full of blue rinse...a famous person comes to the door... respect is enough..dipped in sixties fashion...the gulag is laid bare...and each trinket blessed by a few coins....trips beneath the sunshine...and is placed in a plastic bag costing more than mere trinkets....a new tax..another tax just simply tax.........can i hear the Beatles singing...Taxman...perhaps...
Tis but Conker season even at my age i stoop to pick up..the smoothness, that wax feeling then pressed to the nose smelling childhood way back when there was perhaps nothing else but Conkers on the end of old shoe laces at this time of year, when play grounds dipped to the laughter of children...a think tank for the future was laid bare on the front page of none other than the Tory rag...The Times...today predicting we humans will work until we are a hundred....tonight i rest my case, sigh for all those whom never even made sixty-five before returning to the leaf mould....So Goeth...