@MattAbbottPoet

@MattAbbottPoet
Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

29 Sep 2011

Broadway Circle


Mister Harris isn't happy; barged in through the door
His face incensed with fury and the odour of a skunk
His breath resembled sour milk and spit flew as he swore
He came in here on Wednesday last, his favourite trousers shrunk
I find the nearest notebook and I log down his complaint
But far from satisfactory, he's suing our Launderette
If he edges any closer, I'm certain that I'll faint
And how much bloody duller can my day get?

And I long for any life, but Broadway Circle
And I'll go and join a circus or a library or a church

And it's hardly worth the living when I'm leaving here upset
And how much bloody duller, can this day get?
Yeah I long for any life, but Broadway Circle


And foolishly I've fantasised on many afternoons
With Jim inside my headphones and a thousand mile stare
Convince myself at closing time the end is coming soon
Convince myself that anybody cares
Yeah, you've mispronounced my name-tag although you're getting near
And one day you might manage just to call me by my name
That's right, Mister Harris; it's not "moron", it's "Maria"


Yeah, I long for any life but Broadway Circle
And I'll go and join a circus or a library or a church
And it's hardly worth the payment 'cause I'll always be in debt

And how much bloody duller, can this day get?
Yeah I long for any life, but Broadway Circle

And I make my way home and I sigh and I recline
I stop off at the Co-Op and buy myself some cheap wine
I stroke my dog and put my slippers on my feet
And suddenly my day is rather sweet...

27 Sep 2011

When Saturday Comes


There’s no rational explanation
The lads can do no wrong
Bound by love and dedication
This is where we all belong
And I don’t need a rhyme or reason
To spend my weekly wage
I’ve followed them every season
Since seven years of age
And this game changes you forever
Life reduced to crumbs
There’s no doubting my endeavour

When Saturday Comes, we come alive
When Saturday Comes, at two fifty-nine

The floodlit sky provides direction
For those away from home
As one man ponders his selection
One man’s left to roam
And the pubs are awash with coloured clothes
Not a square inch going spare
And then they exit in their droves 
Excitement fills the air

And he might earn more in a summer 
Than I earn in my life
He’s got a hot tub and a Hummer
And Miss World for his wife
But when he scored that left-foot screamer
Became the golden son
He joined the drinkers and the dreamers

When Saturday Comes, we come alive 
When Saturday Comes, at two fifty-nine

And I don't need a rhyme or reason
To spend my weekly wage
I’ve followed them every season
Since seven years of age
And it’ll change your way forever
Your life reduced to crumbs
And there’s no doubting my endeavour

When Saturday Comes
When Saturday Comes