Players Navy Cut

Nineteen-fifties London, bed-sit land
A Sunday morning
Nothing’s open, Daddy’s home

I must be three or so to understand
The kindly warning
Play with your toys, don’t make a noise

There’s incense here, but not the Churchy kind
Yet more rewarding
Tobacco; both solace and stimulus

Sconced in easy chair, cigarette in hand
Father is reading
Radiating calm, engrossed

Some weeknights lying in bed without a sound
I hear shouting
But Sunday brings him peace, allows him ease

Leather-bound, a spell to soothe the unquiet mind
He is unwinding
Needs no reminding: Players Please