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Description
Found this ultra-cool spot.
A tube tunnel 'bout half a mile long.
Tourists poured down the rat run
Like Manna from Heaven this side of the sun.
Buskers fought and maimed over a site like this
I’d been warned about one-eyed Jake,
the wicked penny- whistle wizard.
This was his spot by the process of natural selection,
meaning he was selected naturally to be bigger and
stronger than me.
But hey,
I was selected to run faster and so it kinda evened out.
The acoustics were fantabulously Cathedral- like.
You could be heard for the whole half mile
so nobody had an excuse to not have their money ready
to throw at you, and throw they did,
and not always money!
My heart was pounding, shooting adrenalin like fire in my veins.
I was suddenly transformed into the air guitar super star I had always dreamed .
Spent the next 15 minutes tuning my 5 strings,
“ding ding ding, dong dong dong, dang dang dang”.
Of course, nobody would ever guess that I knew
barely 5 chords and about as many songs.
They were all Dylan and Donovan my great folk singer heroes.
Donovan in particular because he actually lived the life,
a homeless busker, writing many of his songs in a jail cell,
a welcome retreat from the cold harsh streets.
I was in solidarity with those street poets who lived life on the edge,
those side street heroes who never knew
from where the next meal would materialize
or when the harsh night would devour them alive.
to merely survive, I would have to sing from my heart
hoping it wouldn’t sound like my empty rumbling belly.
The sweet harmonics must hide the desperation
and charm your next meal from the deep, deep pockets
of dispassionate passers by.

And so I launched into my meagre repertoire,
starting with Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’.
That one always tugged the heart strings,
and I hoped purse strings too.
Nothing!
Just footsteps in rhythm with reverb and echo.
Faces turned aside, comfortless distant shadows merely passing me by.
After the first song……zilch, nada, Sweet Fanny Adams.
But ever confident in my own INability,
I launched into ‘Catch the Wind’ ……............
In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty,
I want to be, in the warm heart of your loving mind……
then, the tinkle of coins falling like rain on a tin roof,
a veritable shower of plenitude which
induced me to sing like a nightingale on Prozac.
Wow, this was it! I was gonna eat today….yahooo!
Or was I?
Fortune, sweet fortune, my part-time fickle lover.
From out of nowhere, three Punks had me surrounded.
The one with the spider’s web tattooed on his face
and a black widow heart
made a request, “ Play God save the Queen, shit face”!
Now, I’m no stranger to a rumble,
I'd once been known to carry a blade
but the odds of three to one against were not favourable
and so I sang their request with all I could give.

Like the ego-sophistic Simon Cowell
he said, “That was f-----g shit.”
Then, after I had collected their DNA which
was copiously and most generously donated
they walked off with all my takings.
and just another little piece of my heart!

A kind lady, who watched from afar,
proffered me tissues and born-again smiles
she placed a few coins in the sorry hat saying,
” Have a nice day”!
This immediately gave away her nationality. “
Thank you very murch maaam”, I drawled,
trying too hard to resurrect Elvis,
which reminded me that I actually knew one of his songs,
‘The Wonder of You’.
I sang it in my ‘Elvis style’ voice and it got a few coins,
so I added it to my growing repertoire ( now 6 songs).
Things were going well for a while, the tinkle and chime of pretty silver coins was music to MY ears.
I was not yet proficient enough to look around as I played, coz I had to watch my fingering,
but suddenly, I was peripherally aware of white flowing robes
as graceful as billowed sails in the wind.
I saw coming towards me like a figure emerging from a desert mirage,
an Arabian Sheik in full regalia.
Although not uncommon in London, the flowing robes still attracted attention.
He seemed to bow in flamboyant Arabian custom as he dropped a few crisp pound notes into my cap.
They floated down, sweeter than confetti on a bride,
“ Salaam alicoom” I said nervously, which seemed to please him a great deal.
His arms outstretched in Arabian flamboyance
he replied,"Alicoom salaam!"
As soon as he was out of sight, I crammed the notes into my underpants.
Those Punks, like street sharks, smell money on the wind
and may just come back this way.
Such is the life of the street poet.
Living like a cork upon the waves of the sea……up and down, ebb and flow.
What wonders will be washed up upon my urban beach?
One could only imagine.
In the midst of all this beauty and degradation I sang on,
in harmony with the rushing pulse and rhythm of life.
Then she appeared……
..clothed in orange with beads about her neck.
She said nothing but smiled with sunshine and kindness.
Although not classically beautiful, she was comely and attractive.
She walked seductively with full skirts of many colours.
Her low cut orange blouse revealed voluptuous breasts,
between which, nestled a photograph of some Indian Guru.
As my eyes were magnetically drawn to her delightful mounds,
I saw with horror, the face of a bearded Indian.
It ruined the whole sensation, I can tell you.
I stammered my song but somehow managed to continue.
She began to sway rhythmically beside me, slowly at first.
Then she broke out into a full and mystic dance routine.
Her white curved hips, full circle swayed,
her jewelled navel floating, as the fair moon full orbed
seduces lovers in a starry sky.
Girating, she danced her sultry cosmic dance
to compliment the spinning spheres in heavenly procession.
The faster I played the more energetic she danced.
I suddenly realised that I was embarrassed.
Me!.............................. Embarrassed!
Yeah, I was getting off on the vibe of it all, for sure
but with this voluptuous dancer cavorting beside me
I became self conscious.
After another song or two, I stopped playing and made to pack up my stuff.
“ Hi ”, she said cheerily, “ I am Brigitte. I will help you count your money”.
‘Shit,’ thought I, ‘She wants a cut’!
She knelt down and started counting,
“ Ooh,” she squealed, “you’ve made £20”.
“Cool.” Said I. “Fancy a coffee”? She may just settle for a couple of cappuccino's in payment.
And so off we danced, to the Museum coffee house
and there we spoke of music, religion and politics and Tantric sex!
She assured me that with regular practice,
she could teach me how to procreate whilst 'flying' around the bedroom ceiling.
All of which was ‘total weirdness’ to a devout Christian boy.
She offers me a place at some commune she’s going to in Canada,
She’s leaving tomorrow................. I wonder how she will 'fly' there?

Description
Found this ultra-cool spot.
A tube tunnel 'bout half a mile long.
Tourists poured down the rat run
Like Manna from Heaven this side of the sun.
Buskers fought and maimed over a site like this
I’d been warned about one-eyed Jake,
the wicked penny- whistle wizard.
This was his spot by the process of natural selection,
meaning he was selected naturally to be bigger and
stronger than me.
But hey,
I was selected to run faster and so it kinda evened out.
The acoustics were fantabulously Cathedral- like.
You could be heard for the whole half mile
so nobody had an excuse to not have their money ready
to throw at you, and throw they did,
and not always money!
My heart was pounding, shooting adrenalin like fire in my veins.
I was suddenly transformed into the air guitar super star I had always dreamed .
Spent the next 15 minutes tuning my 5 strings,
“ding ding ding, dong dong dong, dang dang dang”.
Of course, nobody would ever guess that I knew
barely 5 chords and about as many songs.
They were all Dylan and Donovan my great folk singer heroes.
Donovan in particular because he actually lived the life,
a homeless busker, writing many of his songs in a jail cell,
a welcome retreat from the cold harsh streets.
I was in solidarity with those street poets who lived life on the edge,
those side street heroes who never knew
from where the next meal would materialize
or when the harsh night would devour them alive.
to merely survive, I would have to sing from my heart
hoping it wouldn’t sound like my empty rumbling belly.
The sweet harmonics must hide the desperation
and charm your next meal from the deep, deep pockets
of dispassionate passers by.

And so I launched into my meagre repertoire,
starting with Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’.
That one always tugged the heart strings,
and I hoped purse strings too.
Nothing!
Just footsteps in rhythm with reverb and echo.
Faces turned aside, comfortless distant shadows merely passing me by.
After the first song……zilch, nada, Sweet Fanny Adams.
But ever confident in my own INability,
I launched into ‘Catch the Wind’ ……............
In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty,
I want to be, in the warm heart of your loving mind……
then, the tinkle of coins falling like rain on a tin roof,
a veritable shower of plenitude which
induced me to sing like a nightingale on Prozac.
Wow, this was it! I was gonna eat today….yahooo!
Or was I?
Fortune, sweet fortune, my part-time fickle lover.
From out of nowhere, three Punks had me surrounded.
The one with the spider’s web tattooed on his face
and a black widow heart
made a request, “ Play God save the Queen, shit face”!
Now, I’m no stranger to a rumble,
I'd once been known to carry a blade
but the odds of three to one against were not favourable
and so I sang their request with all I could give.

Like the ego-sophistic Simon Cowell
he said, “That was f-----g shit.”
Then, after I had collected their DNA which
was copiously and most generously donated
they walked off with all my takings.
and just another little piece of my heart!

A kind lady, who watched from afar,
proffered me tissues and born-again smiles
she placed a few coins in the sorry hat saying,
” Have a nice day”!
This immediately gave away her nationality. “
Thank you very murch maaam”, I drawled,
trying too hard to resurrect Elvis,
which reminded me that I actually knew one of his songs,
‘The Wonder of You’.
I sang it in my ‘Elvis style’ voice and it got a few coins,
so I added it to my growing repertoire ( now 6 songs).
Things were going well for a while, the tinkle and chime of pretty silver coins was music to MY ears.
I was not yet proficient enough to look around as I played, coz I had to watch my fingering,
but suddenly, I was peripherally aware of white flowing robes
as graceful as billowed sails in the wind.
I saw coming towards me like a figure emerging from a desert mirage,
an Arabian Sheik in full regalia.
Although not uncommon in London, the flowing robes still attracted attention.
He seemed to bow in flamboyant Arabian custom as he dropped a few crisp pound notes into my cap.
They floated down, sweeter than confetti on a bride,
“ Salaam alicoom” I said nervously, which seemed to please him a great deal.
His arms outstretched in Arabian flamboyance
he replied,"Alicoom salaam!"
As soon as he was out of sight, I crammed the notes into my underpants.
Those Punks, like street sharks, smell money on the wind
and may just come back this way.
Such is the life of the street poet.
Living like a cork upon the waves of the sea……up and down, ebb and flow.
What wonders will be washed up upon my urban beach?
One could only imagine.
In the midst of all this beauty and degradation I sang on,
in harmony with the rushing pulse and rhythm of life.
Then she appeared……
..clothed in orange with beads about her neck.
She said nothing but smiled with sunshine and kindness.
Although not classically beautiful, she was comely and attractive.
She walked seductively with full skirts of many colours.
Her low cut orange blouse revealed voluptuous breasts,
between which, nestled a photograph of some Indian Guru.
As my eyes were magnetically drawn to her delightful mounds,
I saw with horror, the face of a bearded Indian.
It ruined the whole sensation, I can tell you.
I stammered my song but somehow managed to continue.
She began to sway rhythmically beside me, slowly at first.
Then she broke out into a full and mystic dance routine.
Her white curved hips, full circle swayed,
her jewelled navel floating, as the fair moon full orbed
seduces lovers in a starry sky.
Girating, she danced her sultry cosmic dance
to compliment the spinning spheres in heavenly procession.
The faster I played the more energetic she danced.
I suddenly realised that I was embarrassed.
Me!.............................. Embarrassed!
Yeah, I was getting off on the vibe of it all, for sure
but with this voluptuous dancer cavorting beside me
I became self conscious.
After another song or two, I stopped playing and made to pack up my stuff.
“ Hi ”, she said cheerily, “ I am Brigitte. I will help you count your money”.
‘Shit,’ thought I, ‘She wants a cut’!
She knelt down and started counting,
“ Ooh,” she squealed, “you’ve made £20”.
“Cool.” Said I. “Fancy a coffee”? She may just settle for a couple of cappuccino's in payment.
And so off we danced, to the Museum coffee house
and there we spoke of music, religion and politics and Tantric sex!
She assured me that with regular practice,
she could teach me how to procreate whilst 'flying' around the bedroom ceiling.
All of which was ‘total weirdness’ to a devout Christian boy.
She offers me a place at some commune she’s going to in Canada,
She’s leaving tomorrow................. I wonder how she will 'fly' there?