Man in the Launderette

Shabby clothes hide dirty skin
His eyes wont focus on anything.
He holds the keys.
Supervising nothing.
Spouting advice.
No one acknowledges him.

He explains disapprovingly.
That from the beginning of next week.
A single lousy cycle.
Will cost an extra thirty P.

With his stained expression.
He demonstrates piety.
To the church of dissatisfaction.
Of British society.

And when we've all gone.
Left him mumbling alone.
He'll spring into action - lock the door.
Never get home.

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