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Down the Lane at Christmas time,

Mistletoe. And expensive mulled wine.

Good luck if you think you can buy a house here,

Tangerines, sourdough and facial hair beer?.


Fresh pasta and sushi and other such fads,

Nick Drake on the iPhone and Hipster Lite dads,

A long queue at Begbie's for a thin number five,

A pint at the Bishop for a post Sainsbo's skive.


Shops selling good stuff, stores selling shite,

Boulangerie Jade. Roullier White.

And suits off the train as they march with their feet,

Shopkeepers bid Fox good day down the street,


(Pushing my buggie without inhibition,

For a warm spiced rum. At the Great Exhibition.)

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A good first effort your lordship,

if the aim was helping me to "lose my shit".

Apologies if the following sounds like a rant

but your cute little ditty has twisted my pants.


Hipsters and buggies are ruining this place.

In 1994 you could see the odd face

without piercings or beards or something else shifty

and we once had an average age of near fifty.


These new-folk rattle on about progress and change

but this gentrification is downright deranged.

20 years later and what have we got?

Another f*ckin' italian in the mexican's old spot.


Cheese on toast, it's the same old story,

you'll find a much healthier meal in the Dulwich Tandoori

if you have space for dessert go to kebab and wine

Five pounds of your hard earned and nutritionally fine.


A post-prandial drink in the Cherry Tree

would be ill-advised if you're asking me

The staff are brutes and the place is doomed

lets hope wetherspoons revives it with microwave food.


etc.

I remember when this was fields

Not buy to let with piss poor yields

North Cross Road was almost dead,

Not all clogged up with four quid bread


Many locals wanted away

To lovely Bromley they hoped one day

They lood at newbies from their fence

?all these yuppies more money than sense?


A Friday night down on the lane?

A pint? a curry? Pretty tame

For those that find it new and strange

You can do F all about such change

The greatest poem ever:


Oh, I wish I?d looked after me teeth,

And spotted the dangers beneath

All the toffees I chewed,

And the sweet sticky food.

Oh, I wish I?d looked after me teeth.


I wish I?d been that much more willin?

When I had more tooth there than fillin?

To give up gobstoppers,

From respect to me choppers,

And to buy something else with me shillin?.


When I think of the lollies I licked

And the liquorice allsorts I picked,

Sherbet dabs, big and little,

All that hard peanut brittle,

My conscience gets horribly pricked.


My mother, she told me no end,

?If you got a tooth, you got a friend.?

I was young then, and careless,

My toothbrush was hairless,

I never had much time to spend.


Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,

I flashed it about late at night,

But up-and-down brushin?

And pokin? and fussin?

Didn?t seem worth the time ? I could bite!


If I?d known I was paving the way

To cavities, caps and decay,

The murder of fillin?s,

Injections and drillin?s,

I?d have thrown all me sherbet away.


So I lie in the old dentist?s chair,

And I gaze up his nose in despair,

And his drill it do whine

In these molars of mine.

?Two amalgam,? he?ll say, ?for in there.?


How I laughed at my mother?s false teeth,

As they foamed in the waters beneath.

But now comes the reckonin?

It?s methey are beckonin?

Oh, I wish I?d looked after me teeth.

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