Never known bread or butter,
The comfort of a warm meal,
A very, very distant deal,
What is more real is a cold drink from the gutter,

Now twenty-one, can neither read nor write,
Wise only in ways rather dodgy,
Would lay ambush for money,
Just for a pleasurable night;

Looking back at time wasted,
Old and grey, a gentle smile plays,
Memorable tunes of weather- beaten days,
And all those horrible monsters proudly bested.