Mile's End

Wrinkles in the back of baldie’s head

Are stacked like rows of Cumberland sausage.

Three rings of faux gold 

Adorn his blotted, plumb paws. 

Dangling branch of his east end chain 

Clips the veneer of spilt Stella 

On his wooden perch. 

A few metres down 

The jaded tribute singer

Pops the collar of her battered black bomber

Giving her hands a break from juggling Rizzla. 

Whilst short bloke 

In the stringy vest top 

Semi consciously leans 

On the bar of bleeping card machines

Set alight by keen 20 somethings spending like excited teens.