Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight. <br />He said he'd call again, as soon as poss. <br />I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat. <br />He said to tell you he was fine, <br />Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks, <br />The crap you have to fight. <br />You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse. <br /> <br />I was well acquainted with the pong myself, <br />I told him, and I counselled calm. <br />Don't let the fuckers get you down, <br />Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes, <br />Go on the town, burn someone to death, <br />Find another tart, giver her some hammer, <br />Live while you're young, until it palls, <br />Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls. <br /> <br />Anyway he'll call again. <br /> <br />I'll be back in time for tea. <br /> <br />Your loving mother.<br /><br />Harold Pinter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/message-2/
