George Lambeth, Policeman, Goose Fair, 1926
I'm near you, Ginger, engaging that beet faced bloke
in conversation. Din't you bump into'im at Newark?
Warn't he the lad who bet on Desert Flower?
When he gets wind up, makes to say goodbye,
Ginger, you'll lean forrard and pat Beety's back ...
Sauntering to the steam yachts he'll find his poss gone,
then come blustering for me. I see it all.
A few nights a year , the city devilish, shops and inns
eclipsed by fairground's reeling light.
That bloke sporting the fez calls himself Mustapha,
he's from Kirkby, real name Arthur Knight, done
last year for pick pocketing. I'll inch closer
just in case old habits come ower him.
Look at 'em, chucking it about, wooden chrysanths,
tarots, monkey-on-a-stick, broke ten minutes from home
A few nights yearly, city reeling
red as galloper's hooves and fiery tongues.
A girl crying, her bloke prefers her mate,
babbies howling, penny lick down their fronts,
old lass, singing fit to bost, barges up and slaps me
on' t back,
I see them all - Gamblers. Dodgers. Suckers.
Codgers, Baits. Thugs. Boxers. All cons
bestowed on man.
A few nights a year, then morning-after city reeling
its gutters full of broken blooms and monkeys.
in conversation. Din't you bump into'im at Newark?
Warn't he the lad who bet on Desert Flower?
When he gets wind up, makes to say goodbye,
Ginger, you'll lean forrard and pat Beety's back ...
Sauntering to the steam yachts he'll find his poss gone,
then come blustering for me. I see it all.
A few nights a year , the city devilish, shops and inns
eclipsed by fairground's reeling light.
That bloke sporting the fez calls himself Mustapha,
he's from Kirkby, real name Arthur Knight, done
last year for pick pocketing. I'll inch closer
just in case old habits come ower him.
Look at 'em, chucking it about, wooden chrysanths,
tarots, monkey-on-a-stick, broke ten minutes from home
A few nights yearly, city reeling
red as galloper's hooves and fiery tongues.
A girl crying, her bloke prefers her mate,
babbies howling, penny lick down their fronts,
old lass, singing fit to bost, barges up and slaps me
on' t back,
I see them all - Gamblers. Dodgers. Suckers.
Codgers, Baits. Thugs. Boxers. All cons
bestowed on man.
A few nights a year, then morning-after city reeling
its gutters full of broken blooms and monkeys.
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