I wrote a poem about trains, well about how I make trains acceptable.
My gin in a can, like a dick in a box but better
Like a cock in your popcorn, only fresher
No pre-cummy lube and slick salty sweat
Just joyously dirty like a post coital cigarette
Gin in a can, a friend on trains, tubes and busses
Making public transport acceptable since 2010
Though reflecting honestly, generally being frank
My gin in a can’s like a cheap boozy wank
Hangovers, lunches and morning commutes
Sticky tissues, inhaleables and scuffed leather shoes.
My gin in a can, strong silent and wise
The Mohammed of the drinks cabinet
The glint in the prophet’s eyes
This one final, true revelation
A midnight epiphany at Victoria station
Like a burkha of booze,
Hiding your shame from the world
Sipping chilled gin, watching the day unfurl
That first gin, in, my face, sublime
Not at all unlike, that first line
So invigorating, that flicker of guilt.
Yes shame, on which the best vices are built.
So humour me, with my gin in a can
Ironing out the DT shakes of my hand
Clammy brow and my two-day stench
Wilting eyelids and cheap juniper breath
Imagining fellow passengers in states of undress
Underwear, lingerie, or maybe even less
Perverted pontifications as to their sexual prowess
The Djin now, well out of the can, and this
Gin soaked boy’s plans now gang well awry
One more can, can, does, indeed catch my eye
So to gins in cans and late night trains
A slurred entreaty to never abstain..