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But it's Thursday, 
the alarm clock rang and a 
nightingale squawked 
down in Hoxton Square.

A jump start to the day to which 
I will pay a price.

Eyes still feeling sleep gritty and
moving tepidly through the 
brown streets of the city 
I stop for a tea in the Mozart cafe.

Moving on with the song that plays on inside me 
I make my way to the Temple
though hardly to pray 
Charing Cross that way,

no battles 
just the rattle of a tin can
the beggar man always sits there.

Leicester Square,
tackier that Hoxton
but riches that hide behind casino doors.

more brown streets
authentic cooking 
East meets the West

I do my best 
and that's as good
as it gets 
or as good at it is 
on Thursday.

Copyright © John Smallshaw