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‘Sit ‘ere luv, I don’t mind…’
I search in vain
for a seat behind:
paisley head-scarf, winter coat;
the faintest whiff of eau-de-goat.
‘Go on, I’ll move my shopping,’
pats the seat, my guard is dropping.
She beams up a tombstone smile,
I catch my breath, for hers is vile.
‘Come on, son, quick as you can,
You sit here, beside your gran.’