I was shooting spitballs at the stars in my eyes, difficult to do, but anyway it's a Saturday and who was to know.
Not the beggar who sat with his hands wrought in iron. I have my eye on him, he sits there quite prim like an old English gent, but I sense the pent up frustration the doggedness of situation, if anyone has an algorithm for that, tell him, he's sat by the stairs on the Jubilee crown which was placed by the Monarch on her way down to the palace, a place he'll never see. 'Coppers for me, coppers for tea'
I just shoot spitballs, I'm getting quite good, but it won't pay the rent, if only it could.