Thursday, 11 February 2016

Although of immigrant stock
I descend from the Dickensian Dodger
Hustle as the Costermonger once did on the same East End streets
I too wanted and deserve more – “MORE”?
A fly pitcher, eyes peeled working on the Run-Out
I’ll pay you little, nick all you can, if I catch I’ll break your hands
The stinking funkum we punted on Oxford Street
The Jekyll perfume sold for not it’s worth
The profit spunked on the geegees               
“Sorry son I’ll pay ya t’mora”
My journey here was through the London streets
I just kept falling uphill

No comments:

Post a Comment