The fruit stalls are dry earth, earth's hobo rounds
On them and the stalls are cleared
This debauchee sits with his fag-breath and wins
Competition outright
Now he is dried-on, my sense datum transports
Me back to an earlier hour, to a parky morning
Where the uric mists of animals rose before
The parched earth rose
Today's chill is still our indoor guest
I will choose calendar
With pictures of ladies
I will place forty three new pence in
The palm or your withered hand
My gift you reject
I am baffled
Take note...you are prolific, your deaf-mute
Boots me in the stomach
The insulin imbalance cannot be so
Severe when the pay-any-price
For one of cards is insufficient
I am here
The crappest town
In Britain