Cleethorpes

On a pedestal, the goose

That laid a lacquered, cracked-up egg

The town of birth I cannot choose

The family tree and lonely bed

The promenade lights up at night

For mollusc-eating corpulents

A fret rolls in from mudflat, might

Send ghosts ashore at our expense

Old Clee has a curious hold

On artists, druggies, ne’er-do-wells

All that glitters is not cold

The knell is not of funeral bells

How many hours by boating lake?

The frittered tripe of passing youth

I made tracks on my rusting bike

And learned that life may not be truth.