Buster pulls the covers back and steps into the light,
Conscious it’s still early but for Buster that’s alright.
Ten o clock on Tuesday it’s just another day,
Pulling back the curtains, to a world that’s cold and grey.
Stumbles down the stairs to have his toast and tea,
Maggie’s on the early shift she won’t be home till three.
Ambles up the street, with that weary, leery grin,
Thinking of a Yankee and how much he’s gonna win.
Steps into the bookies nodding to the clerk,
He hates him with a vengeance, thinks he’s just a berk.
Putting on his bet, he’s worried at the cost,
A lot of drinking money, especially if it’s lost.
Can’t do any more now, as he takes his betting slip,
Puts it in his trousers that rests upon his hips.
Walks up to his local, its opening time at last,
Buys a pint of bitter and looks around the cast.
Dodger’s in the corner with a double gin,
Billy’s watching racing predicting who will win.
Mickey reads the papers looking very glum,
Thinking of the share price it’s really kinda dumb.
Buster thinks in silence as he sips upon his beer,
The world he views is rancid and offers him no cheer.
A man of many talents though rarely ever used,
He body is a temple that working might abuse.
The pub begins to fill up, more locals coming round,
The conversations start in a cacophony of sound.
Busters in the middle his wisdom to impart,
And those how would trade insults would be wiser to depart.
For Buster is the local wit, with a razor sharpened tongue,
Honed on fellow wits, since he was very young.
Soon he gets his gander up and starts to rant and rave,
Attacking politicians and how they all behave.
Accusing them as blaggards who’s hatched a dirty scheme,
To rob the working classes of their dole day is their dream.
Billy’s watching TV he’s heard it all before,
When Buster’s on a rant its time to get the door.
Mickey stops to listen the paper nearly read,
Looking up at Buster he slowly shakes his head.
But Buster is just warming up he’s nearly in full flow,
Quoting Marx and Nietzsche he begins to steal the show.
The crowd are now in raptures hang on every word,
They don’t know what he saying but know its quite absurd.
At last the tirades over he’s running out off steam,
The pub begins to settle as if exiting a dream.
Buster shakes himself and starts to settle down,
He knows he’s acting stupid and behaving like a clown.
Admonishes himself but soon begins to fret,
He forgot about the Yankee and that lovely little bet.
Entering the bookies he hands the clerk the bet,
Sees that he a winner he nearly has a sweat.
Walking out the door he’s pockets full of cash,
Maggie walks right to him and his face just turns to ash.
She asks if he a winner he cannot tell a lie,
He hands her every penny and waves it all goodbye.
At home she makes the dinner as Buster falls asleep,
Another day is over living on the cheap.