Born in the brickolithic period and now a near extinct species,
Ancient master of trowels and pointers, with a bad prognoses.
Natural habitat, barren land, a rich concrete dust atmosphere,
Scattered with mixers and half bats, completely disappeared.

​

Scales are bronzed, tattooed and thoroughly weather-beaten,
Body is a monument to the many full English’s I have eaten.
Alert, tired, hooded eyes are again surveying strange terrain,
Fondly viewing the ageing edifices, I’ve created, once again.

​

Walking toward the setting sun, casting a very strange shadow,
Stooped, carrying a dusty old bag and wildly smoking tobacco.
There it is, my magnum opus, my life’s work is now complete,
Last of my kind, with bricklayer’s hands and pterodactyl feet.