A mucker named Groober was playing the tuba
down on the Central Line.
He’d play something longer to reach Chipping Ongar
and finish with Auld Lang Syne.
But one moonlit night a terrible sight
boarded the train at Bank .....
That throat-slitting grunter and razor-toothed punter
commonly known as Frank.
They eye-balled each other, in trench coat and leather,
with only the tracks for noise.
“Is this Piccadilly?” said Frank.
“Don’t be silly,” said Groober, “it’s Theydon Bois”.
There wasn’t a sound in the whole underground
as Frank reached into his jacket.
“Don’t mess me about,” he said, pulling out
a mysterious-looking brown packet.
“I’ll fight you,” said Groober, “you’ll not have this tuba!
It belongs to my girl-friend Veronica!”
“I don’t give a fig. I’m here for the gig,” said Frank
and produced a harmonica.
In a flash of tattoos he struck up the blues
and they jammed in a musical sword-play.
“If I live till I die,” Frank said, wiping an eye,
“at least I’ll have played Ealing Broadway!”