Homage to The Streets

Holding heavy hands, on heavenly gilded hilts.
Temptress like silk, salted tears and scolding spilt milk.
Sorted when snorted and sordid he’s crawling,
Sweaty pizza for the morning geezer and lean like Pisa.
Rest thy weary head, on this coffee stained bed.
Wherein lays my dead, choking on Monday dread.

Dressed in the Sunday best, complete with string vest.
Get out the garlic butter, and mums yum swollen tum.
Sticking to slims - together forever, no matter the weather.
Washed tenner to mates, like Mr. Burns he yearns for sum.
Thoughts that ought to have been thwarted for the best.
They seem to suggest it’s fickle and far from jest.

If I told you I hated the way you dressed, would you get stressed?
Finish up and fuck off is the fable still said.
God you ain’t in heaven, how fried be thy brain?
Sorry songs on Singstar, sad fat lads on the train.
Never be on the Wii, as they sit and stare;
At the confined kind, who never learnt to share.
For that pork pie just there, you’ll need a common prayer.
Even though you live over here, why should you fear the jeers of peers?

Next joke for the broke fat bloke in the Potter cloak.
Dressed in tartan, smoking sheds, and bikes in gardens past,
Making mockeries of maudlin men whose arteries harden fast.
He is beaten by his class for his cherubic chefs arse.
I need saving by the craving for which I’m saving.
Saving all my shaving for the kind who enjoys topless raving.

Racing Post with Stella close, sinking six in the sticks.
Classics in tinted glasses, like Davey the dashing fascist.
Reaching out for the daughter who’s hungry on the quarter.
Ice cream pleas for Solero scenes, and tightlipped as they are tightfisted.
Crying for Rusk biscuits like junkie fixes.
E’s and dribble bibs.
E’s and citrus fizz.
Granddads knees and Viz.
Pulp Fiction for the kids.

Potty politics and Perry shirt – a dead cert in that skirt.
The Streets hold the words as he skins live the winner.
Hoddle’s smitten for the forever sitting.
Yeah mate, you’re right, we only come out at night.
The proud swimmer, and footballer tonight.