These are the days and place
of the sandhound
and the windyman
the dwarf leprechaun
swithers on his kapok
bum—his panstick
is No. 7 #0008, dung—
for tips, but he looks stood up.

The streets smell of shit
less than shat
yourself, a pebbledash
ziplock frowst
that means sweatshakes
spells jonesboner.

Unwind into a cooler lager;
the whole country’s a tommyshop
at this stage, relax.
Buy an act in a box
off an old lag
empty poke, notch it up.
Let out that tradesman’s Irish
mammy gasp, pull strings
the blunt surgeon says
you’re at risk of greater things.
Steel bones vex, cave. Con
this one weird old tip.

The boy with the mice in his eyes
still thinks you gotta have a repertoire