Esmond Sage

Former function rooms converted into Wetherspoons
Round the corner from arcade games good for a wager or two
We sit round the lagers
That sit on the table
I listen as best I'm able to
The limestone clay rubble that tumbles from all the mouths on this night-out
The lumpy grey speech that hides shards of glass
It's claggy consistency kept together by the splutter from the hacked up guffaws that they offer each other
I gots the Hometown Blues.

Their arms begin to dangle and their clean gym-swollen shoulders hang forward as they think up brick-walled banter to fill their emptying glasses to the brim.
As every horse trots out the stables the gents look up to make inspection and set the par for this week's meat to dribble over
Clocking numbers out of ten in sideways glances as through curling lips and tightened cheeks they share their conquered concubines from foreign lands.
I gots the Hometown Blues.

Hometown will take me from cradle to grave
As my guts wither a little more inside
 Every moment I spend in time with these guys, my friends.