Bit rummy.

Inside my mind is a portal to hell
Where the devil dips his toe in my well.
Well it’s not in my mind,
It’s in the yard,
And it’s a pot hole near Hull,
And the devil, he’s my wife,
And she’s got her finger in my drink.
Strange the shit you make up when
You’re drifting in the sun with a
Litre of rum on a day that’s disposed of
Its use. Having stopped running around
And settled for a more respectful
Existence your mind tends to stray
If not sprayed on the page, which it
Isn’t today. And the wife has stopped
Mithering and is enjoying herself too
For a change, as the lilt shifts along.
Still there is this evil presence in my head,
But it’s too pissed to pop out.