Dying to survive Two tattooed thirsts with pints protect the pub From creeping lace and handcrafts down the hill. It’s elbow time. They’re a declining club; Elevenses their gruff ancestral swill. The old post office hoists its redbrick skirts To flash its neon electronic knickers. The magistrate’s court similarly flirts With commerce. A candle of justice flickers. Shop fronts fonted in New Antique must honour Progressiveness. The fashion’s all stressed denim. Smug mercs and beamers tell me I’m a gonner In a bush town dolling up as Blenheim. I’m pensioned to a wistful dreamery In a village I’d exult to…