Its whining noise is in my head.
Every morning I hear it, see it, grit my teeth and bear it,
wwallow my pride and beg; I need fed.
I roll up my blanket and look sympathetically stupid.
The shutter stops, its serenade to
an open air audience are far and few.
Rush hour props cramp my space,
Do what I am forbid, they go backstage.
In the wings I watch them dress rehearse:
A sexy black number for him; a shirt for her.
Brown is the new black my pillow read.
My shitty clothes keep me down with the street, and out;
the props heads, drop as they pass,
drop as deep as their pockets, no spare change.
Do they take visa for hot drinks?
The issue, big issue for them is not me,
but a pound well spent to set the mind free.
Tonight I’ll have another night on the tiles,
wear the trend even smelling of piss,
wake as the curtains set the scene, well rehearsed,
but know one thing; at least I’ve got fashion sense.