Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight.
He said he'd call again, as soon as poss.
I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat.
He said to tell you he was fine,
Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks,
The crap you have to fight.
You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse.

I was well acquainted with the pong myself,
I told him, and I counselled calm.
Don't let the fuckers get you down,
Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes,
Go on the town, burn someone to death,
Find another tart, giver her some hammer,
Live while you're young, until it palls,
Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls.

Anyway he'll call again.

I'll be back in time for tea.

Your loving mother.

by Harold Pinter

Other poems of PINTER (24)

Comments (6)

A When life gets to be like that poem. Expertly crafted.
lovely poem dear poet. tony
well.... uh.... the last line made me laugh- - -so did the comment by Robert Murray Smith below
Beautiful poem with stunning depiction. I appriciate it. (Report)
Beautiful poem with stunning deliction. I appriciate it.
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