Standing on slightly grubby dignity
By the Yarra bend, weatherly city
Horses are racing, spring fashion to wear
Flinders Station, under clocks, “See you there.”
Town Hall shimmies gala, play, committee
Outside St Paul’s, koori man, “Want to share?”
The bedless wander, “Any change to spare?”
Big Issue sells stories, not charity
Hawking on slightly grubby dignity
Uncle U.S., Mother England ditty
“Mel Burn is our mate—larrikin gritty”
Users nod off, tramming, ticketed fare
Table dancers “young” “hot” “X”—“rude to stare”
Tearing up bluestones—the past not pretty
Jazz haunts the laneways—dark integrity
Busking on slightly grubby dignity