The tramps have started grooving. I do not approve. When they bodypop It makes me itch. I saw a vagabond in a tweed coat Spinning on his head Making his damp trilby go all flat.
He leaves the phone cradle Turtle-flipped beside a biro Doodle of fire To remind her Of the night they sat Wang-eyed on a see-saw And kids set some bins alight Near the far railings.
1. It sings to itself, calling Into the throat of a well And thrilling in the bounceback echoes As if they were the hails of some jaunty raftsman Hello, hello, You are real sir
By day, she is a paragon Of temperance and propriety She sits, and knits, and sups oolong With pillars of society Reflecting solemnly upon Their lives of strict sobriety