Water...

She said once in a scene, as a teen in an advert once seen,

“The water in Mayorca don't taste like wat it ort ta.”

And if I'm wet and feel clean my mind often dreams,

for not all that I see, is even real or has been.

Still that water in Majorca,

where I skinny dipped with someone’s daughter.

Was at 14, the best holiday I've ever been,

drunk at night, trying to chat French to German teens.

Memories often escape me, most have been blocked out,

but once in a while, one kicks my head in with a shout.

Waters the theme, and it tries to temper my mean,

and who would want to flounce if your pits aint even clean.

You may take the piss, and snigger behind posh wrists,

but step to my face, I'll remix Shelly n Keats with my fists.

So that water in Majorca actually does taste like what it ought to,

it's shitty n bitty and very often too gritty.

You must boil it to drink, or you'll catch bugs in a wink,

and if the waters not clean I'll see specks in my think.

A shower calms my head, whilst gypsies wish me dead,

yet I don't think my nog, wants another bat round it's head.

So I float in my minds boat, trying to relax as I toke,

a Sea Scout at 10, but then thrown out for a joke.

Still lucky for me, as the Troop leader liked young boys,

I just feel sorry for those left, some abused like toys.

Sordid strokes on the leg, just before a night swim,

And a pat on the ass, if you were good in the gym.

That's just one peek, behind my minds curtain to speak,

and then hopefully I forget, before it comes back in my sleep.

So I forget all the nonces and the many pervs in power,

for it is their dirty minds that should be forced into showers.

Still my minds serene, as I write my life’s deeds like a play scene,

and through the waters I swim, I pray to keep my soul nice and clean.

© 2020 – All Rights Reserved - Robert Reid