Tony Soprano and a Case of Pie and Mash

I lope around Bethnal Green,
the fragrance of Scorsese's New York
clinging to my overcoat.
A fading comfort.
like Frank Sinatra crooning
'Summer Wind'.

The gangsters here have no style,
just ill fitting Nike,
bad teeth,
bacon sandwiches.

They do not know good shoes.
How to slice garlic,
brew coffee.

All they drink is Rosie Lee.
Who the fuck is she?

Why am I still here?
On this godless street
in this godamm rain

What has this cockney broad
made me do
after only a week
in New Jersey ?

She has eyes
this limey .

And the promise of
morning tea in china cups,
afternoon walks along the Thames
and nights wrapped in
velvet thighs

Her friends call me a geezer!

It's for me to make that call.

Hey Paulie!