...Pete..., a poem by John Baverstock at Spillwords.com
Alfonso Castro





He told many a tale
About his foreign tours,
Drinking in bars,
Sleeping with whores,
Man, of the world,
He would say,
No doubting that,
Quite often all the details
Would escape from under his hat,
“I was in the Philippines,
Wow those minxes were hot,
They visit places you know,
Where other girls dare not”
“You could have four hookers at once,
It would cost less than ten quid”
Anyone who ever met Pete
Knew it was more than likely he did,
His hell raising days
Had left their mark,
This once strapping man,
His bite always worse than his bark,
Battle scared face,
From fights with the locals,
After many a drinking session
Pete would so often become vocal,
What you looking at?
He would say then scowl,
Followed by some choice language,
That could only be described as foul,
Though lately a punch
Would hardly ever be thrown,
His tough man reputation,
Was fairly widely known,
Yet still some young punk
Would often fancy his chances,
this volatile man,
Would always swap glances,
A growl met with a stare,
So often did the trick,
Like a touch paper fuse,
It could be ignited all too quick.

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