I began my pilgrimage to London, great and holy,
In lovely late September, with the moon white like a doiley.
The wind outside the dance-club blew cold and without mercy
While the Actor in his 'Dots shirt was finishing his Hornsby's

A graceful rich man's son was he, with flowing gold-spun hair
In springy loose banana curls; his head was capped, not bare.
His warm striated gimp-hat was coloured in bright bands
And long and thin the fingers that adorned his fine boned hands

His eyes were frozen puddles of pale raspberry blue
And he smiled like the Devil when he turned those eyes on you
An o'er-dramatic ham was he, and friendly half the time;
Like the son of Mephistopheles, he charmed us with his lines

His cheeks were often sanguine from far too much red wine
And drunk he spoke in Cockney with an accent much like mine.
He spoke a speech of Stratford, and his pretence plainly showed
Which left me unsurprised since he'd been born beneath the Goat.

He told a tale of quiet inne, in which he'd drunk too much;
His sponsor found the bottles void, and near had him for lunch.
Another of his rambling boasts found him just out of Bath,
With his clothes on in the hot tub; he sickened from a draft.

Rumor tells, the rich old man would die of broken heart
If he had the briefest clue his son was so upstart.
The Actor, though, seems not the type to give the faintest care
'long as Daddy left him money, if he killed him with a scare.
 

Street Exit
  Sophia '98