Ode to the Makeshift
Hail to the crooked rectangular goalposts
In the back gardens of Bellshill or Shotts,
God save the cutlery, salvaged like old ghosts,
Coke cans and chip pans and rusted-up pots;
Give me the shop on the council street corner,
Sticker guns sticking, apostrophe-mad;
Give me the house with the notes out to warn you
The fridge door is broken, the milk’s going bad.
Lives that are lived on the outskirts of glamour,
Shabbily gentle in Asda’s own brand,
Quotidian dreams in an everyday drama
Costumed by Tesco with props by Taiwan.
Well, fuck all your luxury, stuff your bone china,
Keep your conservatory, pull up the gate,
Cruise all your islands by yacht and by liner,
Charged to expenses at some “usual rate”.
So I was a kid and I saw something better;
Now I’m an adult and I’d rather not
Throw talk around of my credits and debtors,
Since everything owned is dishonestly bought.
No, here’s to the makers-do, cardboard box table,
Safety-pinned schoolbags and toothpaste-tube tan,
People who fail to do more than they’re able,
And screw all the folks who just do what they can.