NH ( / London)

Armchair President

The knobbled wood shaft,
Of his salty old pipe,
And the course twinings,
Of his dated flap cap,
Send him with spasmic need,
To own over someone,
And tower over someone,
Through his legs,
Are crippled with the years,
He flew his service spitfire,
And crash landed in the garden,
Of a Polish milkmaid,
And with his cracked smile,
And groaning snore,
And long dinner conversations missed,
He retires to the armchair,
Afront the fire,
And orders his daughter to get him,
A large hard gin,
But when it is delivered,
It is him who is hard hard asleep.

by Nick Hilton

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