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
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