The mission today is to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken rather than in typically poetic speech. Andy and I have an in-house term for salubrious types that can be found frequenting train stations and we dub them “Stretchies”. The term originated during a precarious walk around the backstreets of our Tunisian hotel where a random man was pretending to do post-running stretches whilst giving us the once over and it has stuck ever since. A few months back we encountered a man who we imagined to be a Stretchy but were afterwards unsure if to have unfairly labelled him hence the following poem.
First impression was quite sketchy
Station backstreet, shady side
And normally I sense a Stretchy
Bling and labels don’t disguise
My eyes this time could not detect you
French man lost or dodgy guy?
Dared not venture to inspect you
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