LOW-DOWN

LONDON

LOVE BALLADS

by

Shoreditch Boy

LOW-DOWN LONDON LOVE BALLADS

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Contents

Comedown Town

A Eulogy To The Not Quite Dead Yet

The Soho Gypsy Rose Seller

The Magnificent And Inglorious Tale Of King Nebuchadnezzar

The Rickshaw Of Aphrodite And Pain

Me Sensi

Comedown Town

Are you coming up?

Are you coming down?

How’s the trip exactly?

Are we there yet?

Is this Comedown Town?

Yo, yo, cabbie, has it dropped yet?

You dropped me off yet?

The door’s locked

but I wanna get out mate.

I wanna get out

at Comedown Town

You’ll know it when you see it

There’ll be Goths and Emo’s init

But you’ll have to bear and grin it

Coz that’s where my true love lives init

That’s where I crumble it and skin it

Inhale sharp and then begin it

Chase it with a tonic with some gin in it

Then chuck the spoon and bin it

Coz if you don’t score you ain’t gonna win it, init

Oh my days I just saw a clown!

This must be Comedown Town

Yo, yo, pullover pullover

Yeah next to that punk gargling vomit

No, that’s some deaf kid with a grommit

No that’s an indie chick coming out the Space Comet

No, that’s a homeless lying on a car bonnet

Next to him – yeah – the bourgeois bohemian

The wannabe poor Trustafarian

Thinks he’s a gangster, basically a librarian

Reckons he’s Cool Brittania but he’s a Bulgarian

Got a mate thinks he’s posh but he’s proletarian

Oh the irony of it all,

I don’t mean to be a contrarian

But it vexes me, people eating sushi

when they say they vegetarian

Blokes hanging out in student bars

when they basically octogenarian

Gives me a pain right here

like a cyst that’s ovarian –

and I ain’t even a chick

you know what I mean, blood?

Yeah this’ll do,

I’m coming up now I can feel it

Just drop me off the corner

so I can set up stall and deal it

Got my greens,

got my whites,

got my Hovis that is

brown

I feel like I am ready,

like I’m ready for

Comedown Town

Hang on let me just paint on my frown

Let me just get ready to drown

Okay, you can drop me off now in

Comedown Town

Gonna go to the Crown,

down some rounds,

then bum around

That’s what I’m gonna do tonight in

Comedown Town

Then I’ll get me to the Hawley

where the girls are all horny

but never put out

Where the cliterrati clash with the trilbies,

there you’ll find me

hanging

around

Between Bellend Park

and Chalk Animal Farm

you’ll find

Comedown Town

Breathe it in,

breathe it in,

breathe it in,

and begin the beguine of sin again, Michael Finnegan

Suggs

you nearly had it right,

but you got it the wrong way round

I’ll meet you at the underground,

I’ll walk with you as the sun goes down

But believe blood,

we ain’t coming up,

we coming down

Welcome to my

Camden Town

A Eulogy To The Not Quite Dead Yet

Under the rubble,

down by the park

Behind the market place

and into the dark

Over the broken glass,

huddled in fear

Clutching his retro cap

made in Korea

There sits a man-child,

a zero,

a faded super-hero

High on plant fertiliser

and strong frappuccino

Straining to remember

those days of pure joy

Yes, it’s all gone Pete Tong

for Shoreditch Boy

Surveying his manor, perusing his lair

From the Tabernacle Street to old ’Oxton Square

From the Rich Mix by Bethnal and the bars round by there

He had made them, and nurtured them as one of his own

And now, Christ sake, look at him –

scared and alone, gazing forlornly into his mobile phone

But no-one ever rings his six hundred pound toy

It all used to be so different for Shoreditch Boy

He should’ve seen it coming that night at the Electric

Two hoxtonite fins dressed a little too eccentric

Trussed-up on gua in rage apoplectic

Squared up to a Louis Vuitton t-shirt popping a pill

And said, ‘Why don’t you fuck off back to Notting Hill!’

The bloke said, ‘I can’t. I’m from St Albans.’

And they all had a laugh,

and apologised to each other on the other’s behalf

For how were they to know their stock

was set to plummet on the graph

Down a quarter come September,

come November down a half,

Being pushed out come the weekend

to the north, west or sarf

Discarded, unwanted…like a baby giraffe

Spawned by a hippo

And to think,

he’d re-appropriated the phrase ‘Oi, oi, savaloy!’

Yes, it’s all gone tits up for Shoreditch Boy

You see, he’d lost all his powers, x-ray vision, and flight

Ironic hats, kooky bangles were to him Kryptonite

He was weakened, physically repulsed at the very sight

Of Hologram triggered hands-free voice-activated shite

It used to have meaning, it used to be right

Lap-tops and crop-tops and whores of the night

Traipsing round shoreditch for electronic fights

In electronic dreams in electronic tights

With glowsticks on po-sticks and ‘Have you got a light?’

And ‘Nah, I don’t smoke dude, I write’.

‘Didn’t ask if you wrote, mate, I asked for a smoke’.

‘And I said that I didn’t. I said that I’m broke’.

‘What existentialist bullshit is this exactly?

You say that you’re broke but you’re holding a Bansky!

I asked for a light and you basically told me to fuck off!’

‘You’re not from around here, are you? Pixie Geldof’

Take some rice, egg, chopped vegetables, add a splash of soy

Yes, it’s all gone teppanyaki for Shoreditch boy.

He should have judged the market,

seen it coming, made a run,

It couldn’t last forever,

this new-age techno-fun,

It was jam-packed, elbow to elbow,

of that there was no doubt,

They should’ve have had a dress-code,

on the door – one in one out

There simply wasn’t room enough

inside the altar of hip

Virgins, over-30’s, ad execs with ring through lip

Artists, actors, ‘bloody students’ pitching up their tent

Self-employed journo media critics driving down from Kent

And finally when they had settled, put up feet and were content

The landlord came round in his Volvo and doubled-up the rent

They’re cunts like that, landlords.

But wait, what’s this he spies

Landing from the sky

Square of jaw, sharp of suit

Cut of jib, keen of eye,

In his hand a fucking briefcase

Round his neck a fucking tie

And his feet in Spanish leather

Valentino FYI

Could it be his nemesis, come to rub it in

With the stench of Mephistopheles, Lucifer and sin

Embodiment of everything that isn’t Hoxton Fin

AntiChrist who walks alone devoid of horde or clan

There he stands – arch enemy of Shoreditch Boy –

Yes!

– it’s Business Man!

But what ho, look what happens here,

an olive branch he holds

Along with a pot of hummus, sure,

but a truce is being sold

‘Come, young Shoreditch Boy of yore,

make way for me and mine

‘Your time is up around these parts –

I’ve priced you out, you swine

‘I’ve beaten all stood in my way –

chav, emo, goth and geek

‘But you my worthy adversary,

a better life you seek, I’m sure

‘There is a place not fifty yards from where we are, you see

‘It is untapped, ripe for the pluck, it lies in wait for thee,

‘Pack up your troubles in your old mock-vintage

Che Guevara kit bag,

and settle up the bill

‘Get on the number 48, get off at Stamford Hill

‘Now before you start,

I’ve done the research, they’re making money

hand over fist,

‘Despite the fact the area looks like

Mad Max meets Schindler’s List

‘Don’t tell me Seven Sisters Road and Clapton

don’t need face-lifts

‘It’s full of sullen Tottenham fans

in old aged homes

with chair-lifts

‘Move your people there henceforth,

this should be your mission

‘For the inhabitants of Lordship Lane, you see,

bluetooth

is a

condition.’

So Shoreditch Boy and Business Man

shook hands and flew away

They let bygones be bygones,

and bagels be bagels, if only for one day

Turning tizer into Jagerbombs

and milk to lychee martini

Carmelli bakery got a bowling alley,

complete with Ben Eine graffiti

Hand in hand they lifted the new East-end

from all its daily troubles

Setting trends,

with friends

in dark dead-ends

by bursting all the bubbles

And soon the artists followed suit

like newts in nooks and crannies

Grannies, grandpas

moving out

Replaced by

llama-necks and trannies

With headsets

on segueways

in archways

Curated by the Chapman Brothers

for a laugh,

And they all came out the woodwork,

Including the baby giraffe,

The hippo took it back again,

made peace and started anew,

‘The revolution has begun!’

shouted a Hasidic Jew

From a computerised restaurant,

Yes, a computerised restaurant,

Eating potpourri deer-fern

with fairy lights in his sideburns,

This

was beyond

Thunderdome!

Under the rubble,

down by the park,

Behind the market place

and into the dark,

Over the broken glass,

riddled with gwan,

Clutching his retro cap

made in Taiwan

There sits an unborn,

a foetus,

an all-seeing eye,

It winks

and it smiles

and it sits there on high,

And out of its dreams

carves a new horse of Troy

Yes, there might just be hope yet

for poor Shoreditch Boy

The Soho Gypsy Rose Seller

The Soho Gypsy Rose Seller

Preys on those who love

She wanders through the West-end crowds

Who cling and push and shove

She offers them a white stem rose

From a woollen, finger-less glove

But what the gypsy doesn’t know

Is there ain’t no love in Soho, no

There ain’t no love in Soho

‘We are not a couple!’ the couples always say

‘I don’t love her, I’m her bloody brother,

and I’m also fucking gay!’

‘No, no, no, thank you very much,

I do not love this woman

To me she’s just a bag of skin

in which I deposit all my semen

Nothing, she means nothing, do you hear?

absolutely nothing to me

So you can stick your roses up your arse

for two pound fucking fifty!’

From the Brewer Street to the Beak

From the Dean to the Frith to the Greek

‘Lovely Rose for Lovely Lady?’

‘Hmm, I think that sentence needs a tweak

Your rose is far from lovely mate

This lady is a freak

What makes you think I’m with her, love?

This ring means fuck all to me, look

You got more chance o’ selling me the Big Issue

or the latest Dan Brown book

You know what I’m saying?’

Coz what the gypsy girl doesn’t know

What she doesn’t see

Is that there ain’t no love in Soho-ho

No love in Sohee-hee

‘Fuck sake, ain’t even had my starters yet

She’s trying to sell me a fucking flower

Listen I only took this slag out tonight

So I could take her home and plow her

You think I wanna sit with her in a poncy restaurant?

(no offence love)

I wanna give her a golden shower!

She thinks we’re in Rome or Venice or Paris

Don’t she fucking know?

Listen, there ain’t no love, no there ain’t no love

There ain’t no love in Soho!’

But still the Gypsy Rose Seller carried on

For she knew that love existed

Even though the neon lights flashed cock

and the eros signs were twisted

Deep down beneath the Ben Sherman shirts

there must’ve been hearts still beating

Beneath the vomiting stilettos and married couples

true love couldn’t be so fleeting, could it?

So she went into the Underground

To see if Love had burrowed down

like a ferret in a warren

And that’s when a man bought her entire bucket

of roses with the contents of his sporran

(it was Scottish money but that’s still legal tender over here)

And he picked up all the pretty flowers

and he chucked them on the floor

And he did a little merry dance on them

while his mates all cheered and roared

Then he snatched back all his twenty quid

and called the Gypsy woman a whore

And he dedicated the desiccated flowery pulp

to all the girls he’d loved before

And his mates all whooped and jeered for more,

feigned broken hearts and swore

That this here man knew where Love lived

and had once knocked at her door

But alas, he was then formally turned away

and so turned rotten to the core

‘See, there ain’t no love, darling,’ he sang,

‘there ain’t no love,

least not in Soho, not anymore.’

So the Soho Gypsy Rose Seller

Went and scuttled home

To her doss-house above a thrift shop

that sold small garden gnomes

And she took off her shawl

and she scampered outside

to the end of her small concrete garden

And she took out a key and opened a door

to a barn - no a shed - beg your pardon

And inside this shed was a field of roses,

individually wrapped and sheathed in plastic

And they went as far as the eye could see,

it was magical and fantastic

Acres and acres of shimmering flowers

all twinkling in the moonlight

All begging ‘Pick me, pick me, pick me,

I want to be where Love might’

And she would reap them with tears in her eyes

in preparation for tomorrow

There must be Love,

there will be Love,

there will be Love in Soho.

The Magnificient and Inglorious Tale of King Nebuchadnezzar

King Nebuchudnezzar lived in Peckham

He didn’t speak Hebrew,

he didn’t speak Arabic,

nich de deutch spreken

He was from Peckham,

spoke bloody English init, I reckon

He never felt threatened

or kept a weapon

to fight the aggression in Peckham

He kept himself to himself,

played tetris

and zelda

and tekken

Ate Kentucky Fried Chicken

Believe me, this is no word of a lie

King Nebachadnezar lived in Peckham…

Peckham Rye…

New Cross, basically.

Honestly, I fucking met him, in Peckham

Used to go shopping in the Co-op

You not see him?

Weighed down with carrier bags,

stuffed with orange peel, dirty dish-cloths and rags

Wore the same clothes everyday

Muttered to himself in a funny way

He’d come up to you and say

‘I am King Nebuchudnezar!’

And you’d go, ‘Okay.’

You never met him? Round Deptford way.

Really cheered up your day

He was Royalty for Christ’s sake

With his black leather tam for a crown

Long black dreadlocks flowing down

Some fishnet vest thing for a regal gown

Those weren’t jeans but ‘breaches’ he’d swear down

Go about his business round town

Hawking a bit of

green

for a bit of

brown

The prince of paupers, this court jester clown

Take the

white pill to go up,

take the

blue pill to go down

The man was a character, he’d wipe away your frown

He’d make friends with anyone,

straight,

bi

or lezza

Fuck’s sake he was King Nebuchadnezzer!

‘No you’re not’ said this bloke at his stall

‘You’re not King Nebuchudnezzar,

you don’t look like him at all,

not that I know what he looks like,

but I’m guessing whatever he did look like,

didn’t look anything like you’

‘And what sort of stall is this anyway,

bits of scrap metal and C90 cassettes

Some string and some pritt stick

and an LP of

‘It Must’ve Been Love’

by Roxette

With your airs and your graces,

you ain’t made it yet, mate

If anything you’ve fallen through the net, mate

How much you wanna bet, mate

You’re a few engines short of a jet, mate,

One landlord short of a let, mate

Few quid short of national debt, mate

One singer short of a duet, mate

A Russian short of a roulette, mate

A playing card short of a set, mate

A bishop to knight short of a check mate

And that is my number one pet hate

Liars like you make me sick, mate

Giving it the big I am, you’re a dick, mate –

By the way, how much for the pritt stick?’

Coz folk resented being subjects

To a self-proclaimed once King of Egypt

Could’ve been worse,

could’ve said he was Batman

or Batfink

or Batgirl

or Bagpuss

or Bigfoot

or a giant cinammon whirl

Christ, he didn’t profess to be Godzilla

Why would he? He was blatantly King Nebuchdnezzar

But our man didn’t want to fess up

For he was King Nebuchdnezzar

A direct ascendant to Rameses

A blue blood line from the Red Sea

Via the Lion Of Judah

The Great Ruler of Zion and Persia

If you traced the line of dynasty

From the hills of Saqquara to Akram

You’ll find that you end up in Peckham

With a man playing tetris and tekken

Watching X Factor and eating Fried Chicken

Having a Tennants, chilling out and finger-lickin’

Watching some pornography with big dick in

On the weekends he might get a kicking, sure

From the Millwall fans effing and frikkin, sure

But by all this he would not be stricken

In fact, if anything, his skin would thicken

It would’ve been easier, I reckon, to say he was Charles Dickens

But why would he?

He didn’t wear top hat and blazer

No!

For he was King Nebuchudnezzer

However,

one morning,

he received a letter

From the social,

they said that he’d better

Get in contact with them,

They thought his general character colourful and quaint

But they were concerned for his welfare,

you see, they’d received some complaints

You cannot simply go round town

calling yourself a king when you ain’t

Well, as you can imagine,

a King does not take lightly to such measures

This ain’t no ordinary King

but King Nebuchudnezzer

He would not be detained at

Her Majesty’s Pleasure –

he was the Majesty!

So he holed himself up in his squat of a castle

And the men in white coats did deliver a parcel

Of gas and

of fumes

and they kicked down his door

And they pulled at his dreads

and his crown hit the floor

See, this King had never been shackled before

And he wondered aloud how he’d broken the law

‘Do you not know who I am, have I not told you before?

I’m King Nebuchudnezzer, of that I am sure!’

‘Shut it ya whore!’

That’s when they struck him,

over the head…

’cross his cheek…

broke his jaw

And they carried him aloft

out his squat through the door

And a crowd there had gathered

and they bayed for more

And that prick from before,

he piped up and he cawed

‘That’s right, off you pop,

we don’t want your like

round Peckham no-more!

With your airs and your graces

and your tales of folklore!

We’re a humble lot round here,

we work hard, do our chores

Why should you live by your own rules

and your own sodding laws? Fuck off!’

So they threw the great King into the back of a van

And they watched as they drove him away to the san

To the loony bin,

the laughing academy,

the funny farm

Where he would be safe now

and come to no harm

And could call himself what the fuck he liked quite frankly

And they beat him

and punched him

and pumped him with pills

And they slapped him

and grilled him

to drive out his ills

But he was resilient was the King,

and he took shocks from the taser

‘By the hairs on my chin,

I am still the King Nezzer!’

But his gown was now white,

his boudoir was now padded

And his teeth were all gone

and his face was now blooded

But it wasn’t their fault, the NHS was underfunded

He’d been sectioned at a time

when they were very understaffed

They couldn’t give him their attention,

they couldn’t put in the graft

They just gave him his shots

till he dribbled and laughed

Like the rest of them there,

as they cried in the dark

For their mothers

and fathers

and kindred

and gods

As they howled

and they barked

and they begged there

like dogs

For a halcyon past,

for the way that things were

When they gave all their love

and got love in return

To their man,

from their woman,

to their friend,

from their kin

Well we used to be kings in a time long ago

In a land far away, where the Eskimo roams

And Red Indians play in Aboriginal homes

See,

things were simpler back then,

and oh how god knows

How the modern day man

seeks the Emperor’s clothes

As he’s picked at by

society vultures

and crows

A bit at a time

at a time

at a time

Till there’s nothing there left,

not even a dime

Just a hollowed out man

and a death-knell chime

See the funny thing is this,

is that King Neb died

Yeah I know,

from what I heard, it was suicide

He’d had well enough, couldn’t stem the tide

So he stashed all his pills and od’d,

I must confide

I didn’t think it would be that easy inside

To have defied all the nurses

who tried to abide by the rules

But hey ho, no-one cried,

he never had a girlfriend

or a blushing bride

Not even a best friend

or estranged child,

nada

What’s even more funny is this,

Months went by,

in fact, even years

And Deptford market traders, it appears

Seem to have missed him.

Oh how ironic,

To have sold him that

green stuff,

that hydroponic

While he sat there at home

blazing and playing on Sonic

Something chronic,

moronic,

borderline catatonic

‘He weren’t so bad’,

they’d say, ‘kept himself to himself.

He professed to be a King

or a Lord

or an elf,

I forget which,

a witch?

No, he was a funny old bloke

He once offered me a lager, offered me a toke

I miss that old fucker, I wonder where’s he gone

Probably back to his homeland somewhere in Babylon –

King Nebuchadnezzar!

that was the fucker!

Huh ha ha huh ha huh ha ha huh ha ha

Yes, I remember,

he’d walk down the way,

With a how-do-you-do

and hip-hip-hooray.

I’m King Nebuchudnezzar,

he would frequently say

We don’t get characters like that round here no-more

Nah, it’s all rather quiet and a bit of a bore

Life’s much less interesting

without the King of Folklore

The King of the carrier bags,

the King of the Rough

Would it have really mattered

if we’d just gone,

“Fair Enough,

You’re King Nebuchudnezzer,

take it easy, hang tough. Safe.”

Well fuck ’em,

this is Peckham,

this is China Town

This ain’t no place for tears

or regrettable sounds

There’s no moral to this story,

it is what it is

Something for the adults,

something for the kids

Something for the Royal Mews,

something for the skids

Something for the gooners,

something for the yids

Take what you will,

take what you might,

take what you think you should

Take a little bit of your individuality back,

I know King Neb fucking would

For what are we

if not but Kings and Queens

in a massive, giant snow globe

What is a man if not the king

or master

or courtier

of his wardrobe

Wear what you will,

say what you might,

be all you truly can

And heed from this cautionary tale

of this

tragic

little

man

So old,

so dirty,

so sick and tired

but so very photogenic

It’s such a shame

he had to be

so very schizophrenic

Now he lies in a grave

but his soul it is saved

and it lifts itself to heaven

Here lies Clyde Williams

1969 to 2011

I’m sure that’s not how he wants to be remembered,

now that he is dead

So I’ll just say,

‘We’d like you back my old friend,

if that’s alright, King Neb.’

The Rickshaw of Aphrodite and Pain

Barry and Sally had just had the most amazing evening

It was Soho,

late summer,

dark night sky,

bright stars gleaming

She’d turned to him

and told him that she loved him

He said that he’d been waiting eternity

just to say the same thing

They’d dined at a little French bistro

just off Berwick Street

She didn’t mind the escargot

but drew the line at pig’s feet

Barry had had the steak frites

cooked just how he liked it

And the wine was fine,

the candlelight sublime,

the Gallic background music enchanted

They were walking back to the tube,

when all of a sudden they heard a bell ring

It was a rickshaw man

asking whether or not

they both wanted to hop in

Barry and Sally couldn’t believe it,

what a perfect end to their evening

Not the push and shove of the underground

but their own private chariot to leave in

So they both jumped in,

and like Royal kin,

kicked back and thought of Rome

Of Oriental princes

wheeled by eighteenth century gypsies

back to the place where they call home

They gazed into each other’s eyes

as the rickshaw man went forth

This human-equus,

this quite literal road-hog,

this jockey without a horse

With shoulders as big as Delilah’s Samson

and thighs as big as Thor’s

The rickshaw man pumped on and on

unswerving from his course

He battled with the traffic

and never dropped the slack

Then he took them down the quiet lanes

and back streets

to Barry’s flat

Then he showed them the moon,

as the lovers did spoon in the back

just to keep out the cold

And if that weren’t enough

he gave them a blanket

so they could keep their legs warm

and unfold

They didn’t want this journey to end,

oh no no,

so they took the ride right to the door

Just so they could be part

of this fairytale cart

for a few

brief

fragile

seconds

more

And with one last endeavour,

he did pull down the lever,

and they hopped out together from the rickshaw

And Barry asked him how much,

and the man said

‘well since there’s no meter, let’s call it a tenner’,

although inside he was hoping for more.

‘A tenner?’ said Barry. ‘Ten pounds?’ ‘That much?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’ ‘Ten quid?’

‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

‘Have you got change of a fifty?’

‘Ten quid?!’ ‘‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

‘‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’

‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’ ‘Ten quid?!’

Me sensi

So me went to Camden Town

To buy me herbs off a dealer-man

But he tried to sell me mud

right from the ground

I’m saying you are just a stealing man

But then he come up to me

and try to say it marijuana

But then me look him the eye with some surprise,

it’s the skin of a banana

I’m more familiar

with sensimilia

The stuff that they will sell ya,

will kill ya

’cept sensimilia

So then me went to Notting Hill

To buy an ecstasy pill

But it made me kinda ill

It was a guinea-pig worming pill

I’m more familiar

with sensimilia

The stuff that they will sell ya,

will kill ya

’cept sensimilia

So me went down to Golders Green

To buy some amphetamine

But it was not the pills

that I had use to seen

It was Kosher Vanilla Ice Cream…

which for those of you that haven’t tried it…

not very nice…

got bits in it.

So me took the 149 straight down to North Finchley

To buy a bucket of LSD

But it did nothing for me

Except for green things

I now randomnly see

I’m more familiar

with sensimilia

The stuff that they will sell ya,

will kill ya

’cept sensimilia

So me went to Iraq

To buy the world’s finest crack

But when me finally smuggled it back

Turned out to be the cartledge

from a hedgehog’s back….

But I still took some

Coz I was lonesome

But it made me kinda ill

Felt a darn sight better when me had

the guinea-pig worming pill!

I’m more familiar

with sensimilia

The stuff that they will sell ya,

will kill ya

’cept sensimilia

So then me snuck into me housemates room

And found a bag of dem mushrooms

Took more than I possibly should

Now I’m walking in the air

I’m walking in the moonlight sky

And people down below

Know that I’m through with getting high

Other books by the same author:

HAPPY CLAPPY CAPITALISTS

THE FAME GAME VERSES

Available to buy on Amazon and all good online retailers.

Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-43 show above.)