THE LAMENT OF THE STOLEN CARDY

The Lament of the Stolen Cardy
By David M Meads


Mooching along the Melbourne streets, I saw a cardy, alone,
unwanted on the shop rail.
Flaunting its woolly synthetic mix to no avail.
All black and grey and stripey, I could see
That it perfectly matched my personality.
I rushed into the shop, dollars in hand,
Wearing this cardy I looked like a guitarist in Franz Ferdinand.
Later, in the club that night
I was transformed by the magic indie cloak
To a coolish, stylish trendsetter.
From some dull bloke.
I threw the woolly hug onto a chair, unaware.
Fighting my way through a booze fog to the bog.
When I returned from the lavatory I saw that some blighter, with fingers lighter,
Had snatched my new found cardy.
Ephemeral, like English summers, like lace wings, like shooting stars, and a newly opened box of cocoa pops.
The cardy, as soon as it came was gone and I had to go back to the shops.
I bought another cardy but this one was black so's not to tempt the eyes and hands of those who would take the cardy from my back.