PolisTen green bottles
Nine of them empty
Eight pm.
Seventh heaven, or so I think.
Six lads looking for trouble
Five consonants and two vowels, please Carol… “fuck off”.
Four policemen arrive.
I’m still three sheets to the wind.
Two fingers to the officer.
One born every minute.
Blast.
Off to the station.

© Gerry Webber 2013

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