I heard them as I walked through cobbled streets
made damp by a late December squall.
Sheltered by stained red-brick walls,
shunned by shoppers, and deliberately ignored
by those of a certain wealth who deem any individual
to be of an inferior race, they played old airs
upon makeshift, much-travelled instruments.

A battered top-hat stuck with peacock's feathers,
a pinstriped waistcoat that had seen better days,
a gold watch-chain hung with lucky charms
beneath his paisley cravat, gnarled hands caress
a knee-held drum as he beats out a timeless rhythm
that echoes around the thronging streets
like a half-forgotten memory.

Clad in stained and crumpled jeans,
weather-beaten face half-hidden by the
downturned brim of a leather drover's hat;
the singer barely looks up at his transient audience;
his faded combat-jacket buttoned tight against the rain
as his leaking boots dance an unconscious jig
across wet flagstones.

Beside him a dented steel-guitarist sits on an upturned milk crate,
his grey dreadlocks cascade back from his side-shaved head;
his tattoos flicker like feedback from his unsafe amp,
barely connected by dubious wiring to a ***** car-battery,
as "Old Bold Captain Preedy" is re-released into a sputtering sound-system with all the reverence of the 23rd Psalm.

And I will fear no evil, for thy existence and style, they comfort me,
and thy music is always with me.