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Poem: King of the Kilburn High Road

 

King of the Kilburn High Road

… My happy feet skip down the high street

Not homeless, or NEET – NOT IN EDUCATION, EMPOYMENT or TRAINING

Just BEAT… And tired… And working for the man!

If GOD exists,

I’m working all the hours SHE sends

So I need light relief, take myself to a bar

Bump into a suited Henry climbing out of his beamer

Sorry mate, I say, though no fault of mine

He gives me the proper daggers

Passes the keys to his dolled-up bird

Then a posh bottle of Cotes Du Rhone wine

    He gets right up in my grill

And calls me a gypsy

Toff prick’s built like a brick shithouse

Fresh out of Chelsea

His fake-tanned Doris clutches her Louis Vuitton

Then does up its flies

Checking her acrylic nails and rolling her fake lashed eyes

As her Norman squares up to me, front on

I arch my back and stand up tall

Stare him out good and proper

Had a shit week at work

Scan up and down the street, for a copper

He pulls his Lacquered quiff back, looking to chin me

I stand as his eyes glare right through me

They roll back in his head, egg-white like bleached pearlies

I stay still and keep my heart beat rock steady

Waiting for the inevitable, but born ready

For a class-war accelerated by Thatcher

I sway his fat privileged head, and duck his manicured fist

Punch him in the face, goes down like he’s pissed

 Yelping and clutching his hip

Then I turn, King of the Kilburn High Road

And head held high, stroll into The Good Ship

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