And here slip I — dragging one foot in the gutter —
In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap radios.
And there sits she — no bed, no bread nor butter —
On a double yellow line where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; Crash-barrier Waltzer —
Some only son’s mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman — blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster — Move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux — His Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, oh let me send her to a cheap hotel —
I’ll pay the bill and make her well — like hell you bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them to be still more independent.
