The ratatatat
And the heard fattened crack
Of shots bounce back off white, concrete walls
Small boys flap without flair
Like a ceased Fred Astaire
'Tip Tap' against dulled varnished floors
A bitch with a crick
And a holstered thick stick
Wears leotards and tights past her age
And roars with gruff message
The rhythmical lesson
Like to men on a Sandhurst parade
The young desperados
Still dance with bravado
In the face of the unlearnt regret
Smile dumbly whilst thudding
But dream about gunning
When their rents come, too late, to collect.
Steel shoes worn like horses
Without reasonable cause
Except for to tap, skank and drum
Leave little boys knackered
Ears ring from the racket
But at least, for a week, they are done.
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