Drunken Summer Days
Lazy, hazy, drunken summer days,
swerving, swirling, walking home.
Singing songs to yourself, as you sway
along the hot, concrete pavements,
in the middle of the afternoon.
To wake in time to make the pub again.
Those days, all those years ago,
I wish I could have them again. But
time never repeats itself, and it wouldn’t
even if it could. It’s a bit of a twat
like that. But you can never argue
with time. Just thank God, or whatever
there is that you have those days
to play whenever you want to in the
cinema of your memory.