Johnny Two Wellys

In the shadow of the Beecham's factory clock tower, it's stopped raining.
I step out and see Johnny Two Wellys, Welly Man, Mr Smelly Wellys.

Mr Whippy dripping down his beard, his eyes twinkle at me
from under his balaclava. The wind that blew the rain clouds away

saves my sinuses from Johnny's vapour trail. Down the street
the stench of concentrated urine disturbs shoppers. Pissy Johnny,

Pissy Benny, Pissy Alvin, Piss Man  - Hiya Love - Beautiful day
yes Johnny I've never minded the grey skies and drizzle myself.

Johnny cackles sending tendrils of vanilla spit spinning, creamy,
then waves at shellsuited skinheads as they point, scratch their balls,

sniff their fingers and laugh. Johnny. Is that your birth name? Alvin,
Benny, Quentin, Johnny. How did you end up a free roaming street man

who converses with the other world of faery? Gibbering in green wellys
and calling women dirty sluts. You took a few beatings for that.

Iron bar in your tweed overcoat for security. The Christian girl in college
said you had an English degree and mummy locked you up in a cupboard.

What sly promise did alcohol whisper in your ear? Was it more of a threat?
A box of spicy chicken you'll eat tonight. That will provide a few laughs

for the Stella boys wearing Lynx Alaska. What came first? The chicken
or the Schizophrenia? Johnny mumbles something about a cup of tea

I'm sorry John I've got no change. His hand reaches down into his
fetid pants and pulls out a tartan flask. More like a head-butt than a smell.

No. I meant do you want a cup of tea? Gentle Johnny. Mad, stinking
bastard Johnny. I must decline your kind offer and continue on my way

to the off licence. Drink your tea and your whiskey alone Johnny Tramp.
I will toast your health under the railway bridge with a can of 7.4% cider.

Mathew Oswald-Haggett

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