gininacan

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..