The Red Rose of Palookaville (re-edited)
Raining blood on Bleaker Street bedlam.
Dead horses, broken carts.
The phone box a mad motel,
for gin soaked, screaming hearts.
Not a taxicab left in Palookaville.
A trumpet mutes out sad news.
For a kebab-stabbed boy, who went raving mad,
cos little Ruby sucked him so blue.
Christ! Betrayal left him drowning.
A dirty bed paddles the beast.
Clinging forever, a murder of love.
His famine before her feast.
Maybe he’ll get a tattoo.
A red rose for any other crime.
He’ll hide it on his shoulder blade,
and let it weep from time to time.