Rodger Argyle always stood with his bloodied hands dug deep – the creep on our corner with fish to fleece
Would go to hell ‘n beyond to harness that river with all of the trimmings upon
You name it ‘n he had it, stringed smelly together for the worn – out housewives to catch glorious glimpse
They were always willing to lose a pretty penny, they were
Money otherwise prone to being spent on cheap bubbled beer chased by square ale to settle an alcoholic husband’s mind somehow – down the Rafters pub where imagination takes sordid ‘n fancied flight, where they cackle ‘n call one another out on their every known misdemeanor, twisted creeps who will hold each other on up no less
An alcoholic’s most cherished lifetime investment
‘Til Rodger rejoins ’em all of a loud night on Harrowgate Hill, unwinds a story or ten of their next great pint being squandered off on fine, fine fish for the evening supper that they’ve already gone ahead of themselves ‘n managed to miss
He has to laugh into his very own pint, anoint himself the Sole town trickster 😉

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