Peeling down B-roads in a filched milk float
necking silver tops and yoghurt,
singing the good old songs where men were men
and goats bloated suddenly before exploding.
We hit a pheasant; it shoots a confetti of brown feathers
while expiring. OJ all round and another shanty.
Crossing the border into Surrey,
we whistle at farm girls
as they gather the mangelwurzels.
A stranger takes pot shots,
killing Peter, my dear friend.
We guzzle more yoghurts
and drive for the sunrise,
chiming like billy-o.
I can't stop crying.