ThePickled Pig

Shane

Speeding down the highway
In your real police car.
Can't stop for any accidents,
You're playing darts afar.

Crims can go to blazes,
Pots are getting warm.
You told your good wife Rika,
Won't be home til dawn.

Birthday pots a plenty.
Darts all go askew,
Shane, how does it feel mate,
To be as old as you.

Cuffs are hanging ready,
Baton raised for fight,
Set for apprehension,
As you stagger into the night.

Hat is slightly twisted,
Pants down past your arse,
Vision very difficult
When eyes are amber glass.

Sirens scream out madly,
Lights are flashing bright
As you climb into the booze bus
And sign off for the night.

©The Markar - 1994

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