Pot'a Tea

The wind refuses to subside.

Whilst a man,

With a lesser calloused eye walks by.

Draped in a rouge robe of red,

From his toes to his head,

Cranked with a frantic smile.

Complacent in waiting for our porcelain pot'a tea,

But in fact, time is all that can well and truly see.

I burn my lips a harsh shade of brown,

Whilst wondering what I have found,

In and amongst those around.

Now regretful of my yellow belly soul,

Amiss as to why I'm having thoughts like this.

The wind refuses to calm down.

But the tattering of my teeth is forgotten by that speech,

Capturing various mind from both sides of mine.

Until the sticky sponge pud,

Comforts our shivering shoulders,

I'm now stuck with blued out bottom feet.

Now back to watching,

This wonderous town,

Move past at the drop of a pound.