Saturday Afternoon. South West London.
¶ 1
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Eau de cologne a la greasy onion
Horse dung carpeting a street
Shifty chancers vis a vis Damon Runyon
A beady eye out for the police.
¶ 2
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Boozy balding blokes a boasting
Bout their bawdy bar-room brawls in Greece
An expectant hint of roasting…
Coffee, centre foward, rib of beef.
¶ 3
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“Who wants tickets for the match?”,
A friendly London voice enquires,
“Games sold out, who want’s em?”, chat
Cajoling price no object passing buyers.
¶ 4
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Static cops stand by and clock
Street-wise bawling touts at play
Envious of expensive togs, a Rolex watch
Crime seen through their eyes seems…to pay?
¶ 5
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A local T.V crew inquire of die-hard’s on the street
Their view on tickets touts, for what it’s worth?
The general consensus among most fans seems to be…
“Low-life robbing bar-stewards, absolute scum o the earth.
¶ 6
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Er but…when yer can’t get yer sweaty ands on a brief
Coz the games sold out, and there ain’t no seats about
Everyone knows a fella, willing to ave a word so to speak,
Wiv a fella knows, a fella knows…a tout can sort yer out”.
¶ 7 Leave a comment on verse 7 0 Peace.
32
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