of cheap chicken dens and lager topped vistas;
the Baccy Land
fields of fingered glory(holes)
where Lady Text and her death row prince
lay low from life,
hidden in their television tans.
In spite of labour,
despite the worlds insistence
to spin tides of turning,
those Bacardi darlings
(slum lords to a quid)
are content to thrive in cellulite
and dole queue city yarns.
© Steven Francis poems 2013
