In Dave’s Diner,
by the Hunger Hut,
I gaze down the Old Kent Road
into this heavenly vale.
 
They can pull a pint
with a broken tooth
and I have hidden
in the generous peel
of their wallpaper.
 
You can bring all your
forlorn tendencies
and feel yourself
emptied of shame.
 
There is a virtue
in getting the run-down
absolutely right.
 
In the Montague
you can talk to skeletons
under fluorescent lights
and drink the pride
of our ancient heritage.
And who the hell are you,
anyway?
 
I am in the pink
of fish and kebab
with my cool Victorian
Guinness vase.
 
I pull the soft flesh
from its shell
and mutilate 
scum purity.
 
Come with me and be a man.
 
Roll a cigarette and chew
tobacco with your speckled teeth-
 
we’ll watch the horses rocking
on a big washed-out screen.
 
I’ll buy a whisky
and praise the Virgin
close to excellent traffic
and fine curbs.
 
And you can shove
your fucking Oxford Street.