Slapdash Fellows At the Shamble Saloon

in the city of York, an English town odd old buildings of russet brown surround damp streets of cobblestone pathways finding the party zone jesters strike around half past noon slapdash fellas crash the shambles saloon with a splish splash, they dab a bath the last stop on their dead-beat path zag scalawags like to rally at a mish-mash mosh pit sally peaking the patter of jibber-jabber through chit-chat and blasé blabber the tip-top flip-flop clip clap crowd are to the man vocally self-endowed their tight tongues tied in a tangle wag with rhythmic jingle jangle hip hop beats on the radio shadow rhythms entwine in stereo with tic toc crisscross tapping toes lift a cadence from depths below when two pass noon at the shambles saloon the characters mirror a black cartoon days pass and quietly echo dark portraits show tin art deco