Cock of the Walk
'How as' you? Howya doin'?' Not sc well As you, pint in one hand, fag in the other, A beautiful virgin pulling you to bed, Old cock of the walk. They still talk of your flights— Embezzling three hundred quid in a term, Chasing a Spanish lector, cheeldng the Prof, Trunk calls to London, being, at last, sent down For robbing a pub in a glorious haze of beer, Spirits, cigar-smoke.
Still, your glory dimmed, Young acolytes hang on—brothers to those Who in your days of grandeur dogged your wake, Catching the girls you grandly threw away, Drinking your bottles, your life. They're settled now, Work in attorneys' offices, have jobs In far-off glittering London. How about you, 'Poor cock of the walk? Your plumage ruffled now, Still holding court, still off with someone's bird, With someone's car or flat—do I detect A desperate tic in the rolling gleam of your eye, That grand rich voice too Irish?
Bulky I stand, Bearded, myopic, amidst the nick of the bar, Your girls, your friends, and find you asking me What I can do for you, where can I get you in, My cock of the walk, sick of the bumming life, Taxis to Dublin, crates of Bush in the back, Sickening bounce of glasses, bottles, cheques. Will you at last come home to the semi-detached, Garden, kids—all that made possible That slap in Authority's face we so admired, Your flout, your flourish—ask it at last to turn The other cheek, accept your filial kiss? I'll do it if you like—I'd rather see You clip on your spurs for one last bloody bout, Wreck the whole joint, tear down your Father's house In a glorious mass of plunder, wreckage, glass, Carried out bleeding, leaving behind no hole For cock of the walk to beat his last retreat.
PHILIP HOBSBAUM
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