Writing
Newtown
By F.J Herbert
It's a place where the green haired moles
Oft' emerge from the underground
And skinheads in army coats
Will march like they're on prowl.
It's a place where the white faced dolls
In duffel coats congregate -
They'll dance to their Vespa's songs
Till the wee hours of any morn'
It's a place where the beer boys brawl
And laugh in the well tiled pubs
And strike home with well placed darts
And spend all their hard earned pays.
It's a place where the Indians stir
At the hot pots of curried meats
And the oyster men dart about
With their baskets of bottled stuff
It's a place where the tattered
rags
Masquerade as the fashion's style
And the moth eaten velvet skirts
Are worn down to ankle's length.
It's a place where the wizards dwell
In their dust laden fancy shops
Where they'll drag out the Tarot cards
Or uncover the crystal ball.
It's a place where the art works float
Like some gems in the spot lit air
And the gypsy gangs play the fools
Though the trawler comes cruisin' by.
It's a place where the odd balls reign
Under neons and flashing lights
With McDonalds 'bout the only trace
Of the world of the outside straights.