When you drink your Veuve Clicquot and eat your honey roasted ham.remember for a moment,
Barry Trent.
who sets his table in a tent on Hackney marsh,
he bends over,under harsh light,most nights
eating bread and jam.

Ham would be a luxury he don’t see too much of those,
wearing clothes a size too small or sometimes just to big to fit,
but you don’t really give a monkey’s for the flunkies who live hand to mouth and living South as rich folk do
I bet you think your shit don’t stink,
think on
one day we’ll all be gone
and equalised.
In someone else’s eyes you’ll be the Barry Trent,bent and ghostly,

Swings and snakes
it only takes one rung to fall,did someone ring the bell for hell,is it supper time?
A half filled bottle of Geneva gin
Buddy can you spare a lime.


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