Oxford Street Muddle

living, loving, rhymes and rhythm



Damned be the bouffant that rests on her head

in a way that conveys what is thought but not said

And long live the doorman who whistles with pride

to the sound of the cars and the traffic outside

There’s a puddle you know, at the fall of the rain

where you’ll see them with faces betraying a strain

like an upturn of nose that defies Newton’s laws

off to Newtown they whisk themselves meeting more bores

It’s my city, my home, where this bubble exists

Barely touching the life all around that persists

In a way it’s the richness of beggars that seems

to put in sharp relief pockets lined to the seams

We’re no more the better if we’re bitter in wont

Take heed in your footsteps that fall, mes enfants

Walk in knowledge of them that invest in façade

to acknowledge those who you hold high in regard







Meddlers mess muddled puddles on Oxford Street




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