The Bones Beneath

The Second-Yeariad

Like a long suffering man wandering through a wine-red sea

Of Everyday Value Pasta Sauce, his beard trailing wisdom and pain,

Who at once, hopeful, looks back at all he has lost, seeing all he must find,

So the student, the last-minute-essay-stubble biting his spotty skin,

Seats himself at a so-called studious PVC table, lazily lavish,

Shit-faced chic, and ravages the remains of the Tupperwareful.

Like a long-lost husband, who returns to a world made unworldly,

A defensive bottle of Everyday Value Vodka, neglected in the corner

– his virtuous wife – crying into her husband’s lips her tears of joy,

So the student must fade into a rabble of relatives, a parade of unfelt hugs,

A ceremony of laundry baskets and missing socks and have you grown?s,

To reach his long-lusted-after goal, that which steams on Sundays.

Like a long-hungry hunter, who has waded through forests

Of Everyday Value Baked Beans, whose dog – O faithful companion! –

Your stomach growls and your tongue cries more than its prey,

So the student homes in, nose high and eyes wide as plates, scrutinising:

Meat – real meat! – And not that cheap shit neither! And which

Roasties would you like, bach? The student devises evil potato destruction.