A businessman eats his pastry
in her majesty’s park of dust.
It’s not rained for fifty days now
as her keepers look on fussed.
Young lady in rags aplenty
lays on a lawn of powdered mud.
A plain clothed warden strolls along
and at her scarf or blanket tugs.
What’s your name and number?
This ain’t no hotel to me.
She stirs and looks confused
up at his Chelsea football tee.
I just want to get some shut eye.
It’s a long night in this heat.
Your name and number miss.
And get up on your feet.
Businessman brushes crumbs.
Deception unravels her bags.
It’s easier just to show me.
Her clothes now being dragged.
Please Sir, I’m not holding.
I’ve been walking five hours long.
Through West End’s pissy alleys.
Well that’s where you belong.
Now he’s pointing as she packs.
Away goes his little book and pen.
I always remember a face.
Best not see yours here again.
Young lady in rags sighs and steps
into another day on the grind.
She sits on a high street’s bench
then hears a shopkeeper’s cry.