Tim Wells (British Working Class Poetry)

Tim Wells is made of reggae, lager top, pie and mash, and Leyton Orient FC.


Women Who Like Fat Blokes

Are enthusiastic,
or keep it ‘til they’re pissed.
They prefer a cask ale,
a wine, just once in a while.
If it’s beer in a can
the name better be a pun,
no-one likes fat lads
with no sense of fun.
Be a Gent, be the first
to make the stout joke.
They don’t use the F bomb.
No, not that one.
Cuddly, burly, ample.
I wear a big coat,
do better in Winter than Summer.

Talked Down To
By A Girl On The Up

“Darling,” she wiped,
“your face is so puffy
with alcohol.”
“This is my real face,

He Is Risen

Have you heard the Good News?
The Saturday after Good Friday
I’m on a bus that passes the local
Gay Bar, Gay Bar, Gay Bar.
There’s some commotion and people
peer to the street, in the window
of the bar, some blonde bewigged
kween is werking, their bum cheeks
pressed to the glass, pouring a
pitcher down their topless front.
It's all front Missus. The yells of the
punters louder than Kingsland Road
traffic. This is one fab u lous green
light. I’m sat on the opposite but an
African fellow in is late 50s is copping
an eyeful and broad, beaming, smiling.
His wife elbows him in the ribs and
hisses, “You know that’s not a woman?”
Looking from the bus, and smiling all
the more, he whispers: “I know, I know.”
Have you heard the Good News? He is risen.

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