Like most men of Shields he loves clubbing
chasing daughters of night beyond dusk.
It’s a madness that frees him from labours,
a kind of apple-lust.

On the pull and undressed-down to kill
he’s out on the town with a vengeance
two pints and he struts like a lion;
wears the skin on his sleeve.

And if his right arm’s raised in passion
it’s not that he’s waiting to strike.
Travolta-slim hips on the wriggle;
that’s the action he seeks.

He’s more of a god than a hero
to whole legions of men in the north.
The sight of him makes every woman
fall in praise at his feats.

They see past his hard reputation
past the belt-grabbing lover of ale
to a disarmed man who would travel
the far ends of the earth.

Look again at the Shields man the god;
test his metal against other men.
Then tell me who you’d rather ride with,
in the bowl of the sun.