A vat of vile psychedelic tea
is stirred once in every while by Perky,
the chirpiest Hell’s Angel you could meet,
whose sense of humour is just up your street;
his Ballymoney accent teetering
on your ear; an uncle balladeering.
A mugful of tea and you’re well away,
driving your Metro like there’s no today:
a game of dodge-the-river-bridge-roadblock.
You follow labyrinthine back-roads back,
like Pacman reversing into twilight.
The rose moon rises in the harvest night.