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Harry’s Caff


On the window of Harry’s Caff Is a crying country – steam shaped, Which blurs, like storm-sand, the figures Who’ve stepped off the rattling streets.


There, voices drop like cutlery Over the tables, till they’re lost, With the ash of stops and commas, In the waitress’s arthritic fists.


And drifters sit on high chairs Like surrogate children: piss-stains On their laps; and on their lips The virus of requited hate.


And a baby’s a chip-fed pet, Whose mouth, sauce edged, is the same as Daddy’s was, when, like the rest, he Couldn’t wait…or wank like a monkey!


In the window of Harry’s Caff Are numbers – rice white – which follow Burgers, beans, sausages, chips, peas, Tomatoes, onions, bread, marg.


GEOFFREY LOE Bloody Extroverts


They bathe in custard, sleep on beds of nails, Fifty eggs for breakfast, then, in fancy dress, They march through town like rival fans, with pails That mean this show is not for free, unless You’re quick or blind or, Honest guv’nor, broke.


World hunger almost solved, they stop for lunch And toast each other’s balls. The landlord stoke S his till, but overhearing Goofy’s hunch That pressmen will appear, prepares to give, Those damn pesetas? No, some twenty quid.


Beneath the headline: SO THE POOR MAY LIVE, The Mayor received their massive cheque, and kidd- Ed them, to laughter, “Same again next week.” His house won’t fall while they can hear it creak.


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