False Tits

You really think you’re something, in your red Ferrari 12 plate black top convertible, don’t you? I see you driving up the road where I live, in my deprived crap town. What do you want up here? Are you buying or renting a house on the cul-de-sac or just showing off your Italian car? Park it up here and it’ll be ashes by the morning. Do you own the car or rent it? You don’t drive fast, keeping it under thirty. What did you drive before? A push bike?

I did a double take, am I still living in fucking Essex mate? This ain’t Loughton High Street love. It’s a road in shithole, our deprived town. I see your dyed blond hair severely tied back, the stern look on you face giving nowt away.

Are you a street escort and looking for a secluded pad for your customers? My mate will have a session with you; he’s into that kind of stuff. Not my cup of tea, thank you very much. Are you charging Essex prices, a ton fifty a pop?

Of course, it’s fuck all to do with me. I just see you out of my window and do this poem about you. If all it seems is true, you’re tits will be plastic, your lips Botox, your arse toned from the gym where other plastic women go and your credit cards will be real. Paid for by daddy.

Is your old man a gangster or legit? Or do you work for charity and donate half your millionaire cash to a good cause? And not have a bad bone in your body? We’ll see how long you last in shithole. You see, we’re old timers here. You’re the new gal, all false tits and blond hair and a red car. An out of towner...