“Bad lad,” your father calls me: “Hooligan.”
Each time you come home smelling of skunk weed

and gin he sighs. Each time you nurse your son
and he spies all the hickeys that my greed

left you get Da’s foul scowl. I’m, “off my tits,”
I guess, putting the “cock” back in Cockney;

the cor in your blimey. Thrupenny bits.
“Bum and brat mum,” he calls us. Yet Baby

Danzig doesn’t howl like a haunt when I
bend you over his crib, sopping up two

fingers worth of your drizzle from inside
your drenched frillies; just when Da floats by,

sad old ghast. He hates our, “posh ‘n becks;” you
being my hard shag, I’m your roughest ride.