Am I your static caravan?

Cluttered, cramped and slightly damp,

Stubborn, under red tarpaulin,

Filling up when heaven’s pouring;

Leaking through, relentless drips

That browns the edge of shopping lists

Filled with dips and crisps and cans.

Am I your static caravan?

a

Am I your pretty handlebars,

That flitter when the wind starts?

The rubber grips, stripped to show,

Its pinkish rust-flecked pig iron bones;

A light for when you’re flying blind

With training wheels, trailing behind

That stabilise you to the stars.

Am I your pretty handlebars?

a

Am I your battered outdoor seating?

Used in lieu of central heating,

For when the sun hangs by a cord,

To get a tan – you’re not abroad.

You’re sat reclining in the yard,

A tuft of weed, a brittle shard,

Gently, gently, into evening,

Am I your battered outdoor seating?

a

Am I your local rundown boozer?

They never said they’d let you choose the

Kind of place you get to rot in,

Staring at the barman’s bottom.

Would you take me on the town,

Or leave me in my dressing gown, 

Like a snack you’ve saved for later,

Handcuffed to the radiator?

Spinning like a lazy Susan,

Am I your local rundown boozer?

a

Am I your stolen shopping trolley?

Ride me down the mining quarry,

Twist my wheels and leave them wonky,

Break my bars and don’t say sorry,

Fill me full of bags for life,

And rip them up just out of spite,

Spilling milk down flattened stones,

Exchanging hats for traffic cones,

Huff laughing gas for petty kicks,

Kicking coppers ‘cause they’re pricks.

Rattle down your childhood street,

And battle doubt with every beat.

Crashing out in Shepherd’s Bush:

His crooked crook, the shepherd blushed.

Would you do it for the story?

Would you ever steal it for me?

Your cheap and cheerful, just-so-jolly,

Rolling stolen shopping trolley.