Mornington Crescent. I think of you. Rain in the southeast. Men feeling blue. Men with their bowlers. Kids with their spats. Ladies with chauffeurs. Dogs wearing hats and jackets. Rich apartments. Old punk posters. Tartan garments. I love the exquisite array. I love the camp as camp parade. The possibilities suggest themselves to me. I’m feeling free. Mornington Crescent. The sun in the east. I’ve got a job on. For a Senegalese rich arbitrator. In African law. To paint his apartment strip down the walls. Came down between us lately. Lust and want and need just caved in. ‘Is it wise?’. The answer’s no. It never is but since you ask. We pause thoughtfully for twenty seconds reprieve. Then it’s off with the briefs. Mornington Crescent. Sin is my game. We’ll all be lined up. Irrelevant fame. Next to the broker the nurse and the drunk. I was a joker the wannabe punk that got lucky. Had a good time. Life became fruitless. Egotistic swine to all your friends. All the ladies and the men. The possibilities suggest themselves to me. We’re a little too free