Men of Bees

Men of Bees

From Bethnal Green down to the Boleyn
they buzz around, bit of business here,
bit of business there; hive of activity.
Men of bees; Baz, Ben and Billy,
brash in the boozers waving
bank notes like bunting. After a few beers
and a few ballads beady eyes scan for
bedpost notches. To brassy blondes
with balloon boobs they bluff and blubber
the little blue-eyed blushers, then they make
their move armed with a bee sting;
complimentary Bailey’s, and blow-by-blow accounts
of how they put the F in fillies. But they get
blown-out, the big E, the brush off. As bunk-ups
be their be all and end all, they began the quest
at another boozer.

Down in the basement of the Blue Banana Bar
bopping to drum and bass, mix it up
with a bit of dub, getting blotto on amber nectar.
Bollocked by the bouncer for too much bright
and breezy, but he came over all Billy-Big-Bollocks
and the boys were having none of that
- plenty of time.
Up to the bar wiggles Drop-Drawers-Donna
and Down-on-her-Knees-Denise with a hen party
posse looking for a knees-up, free booze
do it twice for a Smirnoff Ice.
The fat bitches ain’t lookers so the boys go blind
think the gods ‘ave been kind
like it’s their birthday, well what the hell,
two rounds down and it’s round the back.
Well the boys are toking buds and banging
away at the birds with alleyway love until
their balls are empty, and by then it’s almost
closing time and they want a few more bevies.
They have a plan;
dump the birds at the burger bar and back
again to teach that bouncer some
home grown old fashioned good behaviour.

Bleary eyed the bouncer emerges on the blower,
bored expression blah blah blah Mrs Bouncer
giving him an earful. Just before he gets into his Beamer
the boys swarm together giving it the big un
Baz is the first to breaks ranks, kicks him
in the family jewels; bullet fast
Ben reacts crowns ‘im with a bottle,
the claret starts to trickle,
boots him in the back; it’s as if a bomb goes off,
Bedlam breaks out and they all go ballistic
bludgeoning on the bastard brat with bits
of balustrade and iron bars, tooled-up
with anything that came to hand to give
a bone fide beating.
Black and blue
with blood bubbles blowing out his ear-hole
he’ll be sucking hospital food
through a straw, won’t be acting the bell-end
anymore, that’s a given.

All in all it’s been a blinding night:
booze, birds, bunk-ups and a bit of bovver,
what the blazes could be better.

As for our brazen hussies,
bleached blondes with big gobs,
brainlessly bladdered by Barcardi Breezers
bared their bare buttocks to the boys in blue,
them with devil horns scream; “who the fuck
are you?” and promptly get banged-up in a cell
down Barking nick. By the way they were
throwing-up you would've thought
they were bulimic,
boxed-in like battery hen brooders
banshee bewailing as if baited
on boat hooks.
Up before the beak in the morning;
no brief
bound over to keep the peace.

The boys now broke after a weekend bender,
need a wad of bank notes to line their back bin.
Over a bit of breakfast, stuffing their boats
with bacon butties, on the dog and bone looking
for a break, hit upon the great broccoli blag
from a warehouse down by Barking Creek.
Nah! knocking out broccoli from a barrow
is all a bit small time bunce, not enough
to raise the dough for a decent bag of blow
to get ‘em really buzzin’. Eyes now peeled
for that easy pollen bag snatch.
*Idea!*
They bunk into the bath house through
the back door and whilst the bum boys
are ‘aving body rubs from the bald headed
Turk they do the lockers over. Bundles of dosh,
credit cards they do the lot. In and out
no bovver. Celebrate down the Brewers
Arms with pole dancers, Russian strippers,
Lapland lap dancers; tits out
for the Cockney boys,
but wisely draw the line at Becky
the Brass ‘cos she’s a knob rot minger.
Down the High Street exercising the bent plastic
everything’s a breeze until blue lights come blazing.
Old Bill; leg it! they ‘ave it on their toes
a blur like they never existed.

Upton Park, floodlit game,
our band of bruvs,
our double barrelled Becton braves
once in the under fives of the ICF mob
tour Green Street for bravado
banter with the opposition lot
hope upon hope it’s all gonna kick off.
Sink a few cans outside
the Queen’s Head pub,
singing ‘Bubbles’,
singing ‘fortunes always hiding’
but at least our busy busy
men of bees believe
life’s as sweet as honey.