A Phone Call with Morrissey in Bristol.
A little poetry that I wrote whilst under the influence of my good ol' friend - Dark Rum
A Phone Call with Morrissey in Bristol.
"Take Me Out Tonight?" yells Morrissey to me down the phone.
I know he doesn't care for where we go, but I also have no place to go.
Do I attempt the "Go Folk Yourself" event at Start the Bus?
Or an evening embracing Propaganda at Syndicate?
I try to think of ideas as I sit on a hillside fixing the puncture on a bicycle so desolate.
I'd received the puncture waiting outside the Cemetery Gates
For Keats or Yates, and neither did show.
Bigmouth Strikes Again when I tell him that I have no idea where to go.
I've claimed that I'm Still Ill and that I would rather spend the evening in bed.
"I don't wish you an Unhappy Birthday, Mozza! Godspeed to you!"
From this phone call I fled, wheeling my bicycle around the fountain.
Hopefully I didn't offend him too much.
Thankyou
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