Monday, 4 November 2013

Fulham Joe

Gone is the chippy & the caff where we'd  meet
So hollowed out, now, our hallowed High Street
Till, down my stretch of Fulham, for a cup of joe
Costa's had become the cheap place to go.

But Costas un-persisted on account of the Depression
Its memory too a Marcusian Repression
Cocooned in caffeine, scarce exchanging a nod
You with your I-pod, me hearing God

Till a mad fucking Ozzie built like a brick fucking dunny
Opened a Jazz Improv gaff  that's right on the money
& suddenly we are talking ; too late, yet it's neat
I've reason again to Irish my bitter treat

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