When he wanted a fix
Or money for a fix
It was to your handbag
He went first; he'd root through

It like a pig searching
For wild truffles, and he
Wasn't gentle in his
Search either, grabbing you

Tightly, trying to pin
You down, especially
If you tried to hide your
Bag behind your back, then

He got really rough, and
All your love/hate for him
Surfaced like some waking
Cat and you'd pounce at him

And the struggle'd begin
And the whole block knew all
About it and the air
Was blue with language of

A kind your mother would
Never use even on
A bad day, and maybe
Then he'd get the handbag

Open and he'd root through,
His eyes large as an ox
And his tongue hanging out
The side of his mouth like

Some stupid dog and you
Knew him then as a dim
Specimen of all men,
He was a degree course

In men logy and
You had the knowledge in
Each pore and tissue of
Your body and mind and

You'd stand still and watch him
Shaking your head, wishing
To Hell, he'd take his last
Drugged up fix and be dead.