Watch the grannies in their cardies duck and weave,
Midst the sticky pungent remnants of the night time’s boozy heave,
A geriatric dance around the mess,
Of another Camden weekend of ridiculous excess.

Spirits high and gummy smiles wide,
They inch along the pavement like a blue rinsed zombie tide,
With elegance, decorum and repose,
Stopping just occasionally for a necessary doze.

Like shrapnel from a multicoloured comet,
Stretches out a rancid patchwork quilt of fresh projectile vomit,
Coating dirty greying flagstones with its stench,
And forming stagnant putrid puddles round a rusting bus stop bench.

Yet the ancient morning pilgrims soldier forth,
As they make the daily voyage to their Mecca two blocks north,
Set their pacemakers to get there before nine,
So when the post office doors are opened they’re the first to get in line.

They wind their tartan trolleys left and right,
As they dodge with great agility detritus of the night,
To head the queue to buy a book of stamps,
They must first avoid the lingering drunks, the crack-heads and the tramps.

In anguish one cries out then swiftly veers,
To evade a streaky ribbon of repulsive dog shit smears,
Which reaches out in vain to block her way,
Its curving dank brown finger in mischievous stinky play.

And with a final thrust at last they reach their goal,
Recoup with tea fresh from a thermos and a foil packed egg roll,
They’ll be back around the fire by half past 10,
Rising up the following morning to do it all again.