And The Washing Still Out Drying

the day got up with a hang-over birds played hide and seek with a boy's flung stones behind a window, a pentagram's scrawled on a wall in red but it's saying nothing Saturday's whores grow ripe with sweat and sin On the cobbles at gap-toothed windows a mongrel scratches its balls whines for a wished-for bone from under the pub door cigarette smoke seeps out the smell of whisky and spit flows over the evening Jeannie Froubister didn't throw herself off a bridge or swallow a bottle of bleach she met a murderer in an Edinburgh street such a nice man too, with perfect hands and manners and salaried, you can't trust anybody strangled, and the washing still out drying