A Ferrari booms outside a Caribbean take away,
And a distant cry ‘I just got paid’
A green bush does scream,
‘I’m so smacked out, get me clean!’
And there’s Tesco metro,
Where yummy mummies buy veg
And the pawn shop next door
where ambitious bets are hedged
And lost.
Colourful textile stores promise liberty
The fabric’s abundance and fluidity
Drowns.
There’s the pastry shop which claims with pride
to be the best this side, of the M4 ,
And every face is hungry for more, more, more…
Most for the local offie which will sell booze to any old kid,
Yes, you’re in a nappy but you said you’re 18, why would you fib?
The Dental Centre ploughs through cavity,
As the requisite forms promise poverty
The market’s reddest rawities,
Hang from the interiors of a white van
‘Get it now, get it now, while you can’
yells a butcher – self proclaimed.
Ladbrokes is armed with a seductive slip,
And threatens bankruptcy with a 50 shades whip,
And so Indie falls upon the empire,
Putting beards, lip piercings and the plain weird in line,
Next to Aussies and Kiwis who walkabout
and question who is most stout
And who’s drinking it
‘Oi you, you’re fit’
Shouts one to another
Secretly pining for their mother.
Then there’s the defectors
There’s nothing to defend from what these lads have got,
Gonorrhea falls from their noses, disguised as snot.
And across the green lies somewhere serene and clean,
Where bagels are served from dawn to dusk
It’s privy to London’s finery
Munching on chicken escalope or a kebab
Breaking Bad’s baddest lab,
No glamour, pretense or bullshit,
It just is what it is and that’s it.
And there’s nothing left to say,
But I fucking love you anyway.
