Our stop-go drive across London’s blocked sprawls,
Was a late night re-circling of ‘my round’:
A pumped-pint history of spilt-bitter fools,
I reviewed that compendium, new-found*.
My tale: a tatty, once-thumbed A to Z,
Of bars, en-route, where I sipped-up my youth.
I dozed, again, asleep in strangers’ beds:
Drunk kisses, sour love, then alarm-sobered truth.
Vest-men lay white lines, on jigsaw tarmac:
Their no-go queue, our no sat-nav rat-run,
Past my re-let home, no more doubling-back:
Suburbia’s last road map of all undone.
*amend advised by @Lloyd_Cole 15-12-15