The Ladette

If I should pass out, think only this of me;
That there’s some piss-stained corner of a town centre
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a smell of sick and curry;
And a Ladette whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her knickers to lower, her flesh to bare,
A body of England’s breathing English air,
Washed by the lager, snogged by yobs of home

And think, this girl, all dignity shed away,
Bladdered out of her mind, no less
Pukes up on her shoes the vodkas by bartenders given;
Head swimming, dreams of greasy takeaway,
And laughter, boys giving it large, sirens and broken glass;
On the piss, under an English heaven.

(Apologies to Rupert Brooke)

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