Southwark Park Road

some call it the Beirut 

of East London,

it ain’t that classy

you’ve got to gel 

with the locals

maybe sample the cuisine,

just don’t go getting “Mardie”

you’ll get knocked out clean

 

Lou Farrow’s use to 

serve mushy pea

ectoplasm, you had to

close your eyes and swallow

whilst holding your nose,

it’s now a Turkish Barbers

who’d happily slit your throat

in the name of Jihad 

 

up in Market square 

human sized pork chops 

leashing their attack Dogs

sit sizzling on the 

pavement grill,

they’re all feeling 

“Proper Chill” 

now they’ve cashed 

their Giro’s,

they don’t have a 

‘To Do’ list

so the wasters 

are getting pissed 

at the taxpayer’s expense

 

up by the old clock house 

there’s a couple 

of functioning junkies  

blurting and gargling 

as they drag 

a fully constructed

four poster bed 

to Cash Converters,

they’re a proper pair

of nothing burgers 

 

sunny side up or

sunny side down

it don’t matter 

around this part of town,

they mainline lard 

hard,

a bacon sarnie, 

a chip butty,

you can stick your 

Portabella mushrooms

up your be-hind, 

they ain’t being kind

they’re being honest

 

Annete from the florist,

she’s seen it all

the ‘old skool Millwall’

having a ball 

kicking off with 

the West Ham gangs,

knuckledusters,

blades, 

batons fashioned

from pipes, 

Molotov cocktails 

illuminating the night

and into the early hours

 

riot police 

and ambulances 

blue light, 

it’s a cataclysm 

at closing time,

drinking to excess,

the chicks dressed 

to impress,

alcohol is the siren

for violence when mixed

with low I.Q defiance

 

Sunday mornings

with the locals ‘hanging’,

there ain’t no such thing

as “hair of the Dog”,

they’re still drinking 

and rinsing loose change

on a ‘sure thing’, 

12 noon, 

30-degrees, 

sweating 

and the drunks 

are still betting their 

job seekers allowance away

 

spray painted murals,

cockney funerals 

akin to royal processions,

dolled up tarts

with their cheap 

hair extensions

and Botox expressions

scream bloody murder

as they vomit their burgers

over both themselves

and the spectators,

hell ... it ain’t even 

Saturday night 

and everyone’s getting 

shit faced

 

Southwark Park Road

it’s easy to feel out of place

especially if you have 

a hyphen in your surname,

it’s the agony and pain

over and over again 

that keeps the fighters fighting,

the betters betting,

the drinkers drinking 

and the home team winning,

I wouldn’t change a thing