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