Gearing up

for the local eisteddfod, I was, see.
Supposed to be in charge
of the petal-scattering nymphs
in that part of the proceedings
after some old poet has been robed
and sat down in his monster-chair.

Well I was ready an hour early.
Keen, I was, see, to do it all right
and the flower girls were already
herded and secure in their holding pen,
so I had a quick five minutes, didn’t I,
to pop round the back of the tent

and cadge a fag from one of the boy
clog dancers. I spotted his packet
poking out of his pocket, see,
and he said he’d give me one
if I gave him a kiss.
Well, fair play, to him.

So after the exchange, like,
he hobbled off with his mates, swaggering and elbowing,
and I leant up next the chip van,
and scrounged a light off greasy Geraint.
And that’s where you see me now, see.