It’s damp and grey, my nose runs in a post-flu way,
but it’s warm and snug inside my flat
I’m wearing my new waistcoat of ginger tweed
with four pockets which Carmen just freed,
these will more than take care of me.
My phone slides in above mi corazon,
shielding me from losing contact with the times,
while my grandfather’s gold half hunter kinda keeps the hour
in the bottom left artfully flapped embrasure,
the opposite pocket enfolds my snuff box with the inlaid silver anchor
beautifully crafted by some long-dead Victorian sailor.
And all my troubles seem well-spent,
with Harris tailoring comes restraint.
