Costermonger Cry

In the sway of tube trains
as they swerve around London's deep,
long buried plague pits,
I practice my booty swing
in time for Carnival.

The dead slow dancing
through layers of clay do not wear
bright colours or taste spice
and smoke upon their broken
palates. Rust is eating

edges off lost blades, while I suck
peri peri from chicken bones.
My tooth enamel is awash
with Red Stripe piss:
stink of new Babylon

sticks to Kickers kack
on a cakewalk less of Lambeth
than long lanes out of Jerusalem:
dub bong beats of Bromley
by Bow, where zones begin

and end, where Jack drinks gin
with Marie, because no-one trusts
bottled water labelled 'Thames'.
This is the city in the songs
I whistle. Enough to make a costermonger cry.