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.
Boozy balding blokes a boasting
Bout their bawdy bar-room brawls in Greece
An expectant hint of roasting…
Coffee, centre foward, rib of beef.
“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.
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?
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.
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”.