Whatever People Think I Am Or Say

I Realized It Might Be Possible To Do Such A Thing, Run For Money, Trot For Wages On Piece Work At A Bob A Puff Rising Bit By Bit To A Guinea A Gasp And Retiring Through Old Age At Thirty-two Because Of Lace-curtain Lungs, A Football Heart, And Legs Like Varicose Beanstalks.

It's A Treat Being A Runner, Out In The World By Yourself With Not A Soul To Make You Bad-tempered Or Tell You What To Do.

Everybody Thinks Theyll Never Get Married At Your Age. You Think You Can Go On All Your Life Being Single, But You Suddenly Find Out That You Cant.

You Should Think About Nobody And Go Your Own Way, Not On A Course Marked Out For You By People Holding Mugs Of Water And Bottles Of Iodine In Case You Fall And Cut Yourself So That They Can Pick You Up - Even If You Want To Stay Where You Are - And Get You Moving Again.

Walking The Streets On Winter Nights Kept Him Warm, Despite The Cold Nocturnal Passions Of Uprising Winds. His Footsteps Led Between Trade-marked Houses, Two Up And Two Down, With Digital Chimneys Like Pigs' Tits On The Rooftops Sending Up Heat And Smoke Into The Cold Trough Of A Windy Sky. Stars Hid Like Snipers, Taking Aim Now And Again When Clouds Gave Them A Loophole. Winter Was An Easy Time For Him To Hide His Secrets, For Each Dark Street Patted His Shoulder And Became A Friend, And The Gaseous Eye Of Each Lamp Glowed Unwinking As He Passed.