Hunched with hands forward for the handcuffs,
There’s a moment when, from a certain angle,
Richard Burton comes to mind: dark hair, bright eyes, brooding.
But this one’s not even Welsh
Only that his on-off missus cooks in a Cardiff caff.
No claim on the Celtic flame, then; simply a standard-bearer for failure.
Missed the Muslim march he’d muttered about mowing down –
(You mightn’t know but it’s happened more than once on Merseyside,
Years ago, when Orange was the sash some fathers wore)
Making do with worshippers milling round after midnight
And when you spilled them, had they reached their state of grace –
That sense of being other than their everyday?
Did you see it in their faces, Jealous Guy? Unlucky Man,
If just a taste of this had come to you some other way…..
My guess is yours didn’t come at all
You never arrived, even after all that panting down the motorway
In the van you may have hired for somewhere to kip; alone again, naturally.
‘Did my bit’ – come off it. And ‘kill me’ just cracks me up.
Ladies and Gentlemen, the Martyr Manqué – this time as farce.
Call this a terrorist? Dial ‘F’ for Failure
And you’ll have the full measure of White Van Darren, the man-less-than.