The artificial hip.

He's the prosthetic aesthetic
the artificial hip
the coolest thing to hit the town
since granny took a trip.
He is the London Fields creative
the Hoxton neo-native
the ultimate self-oblative
hip hip hip hip hip.

He struts the walk
he slurs the talk
dresses alike to differ
then visits
twice weekly
his local Hoxton quiffer.
He is the pastiche fantastiche
is cooldom uber alles
likes erzatz Piazzola pizza jazz
and avant garde French ballets.

He is he is he is he is
he is he is
he is

Hip hip hip hip hip hooray.

He is he is he is.

Rib eye.

I have not seen meat like this

since

that terrible winter of 61snowed in for weeks
grandma disappearing one bad Saturday

then meat on Sunday
grandpa's eyes glazed like honey roast ham
as he sang (between mouthfuls)
mythical carnivorous songs of long ago

long ago

The jeweller to the stars.

They are waiting in the cafe's
the restaurants and bars
or parked on unlit corners
in expensive cars
they are waiting for the snowman, the blow man, the let's go man
they are waiting, waiting, waiting
for the jeweller to the stars.

He is the closest thing to royalty
their business is all his
with his bags of herbert sherbert
(the silly rich mans wizz)
he makes them feel quite special
and just a
little
bit
show biz
they are guaranteed to talk the talk
walk the walk as well
he is the pied piper
the piper at the gates of hell.

White christmas is his ringtone
on his prepay mobile phone
his sole visible means of support
the long suffering wife at home
he is the king of the powder rooms
his shit it smells of roses
to the vacuous trustafarians
born
with
silver spoons up their noses.

He is known to each and every one
the jeweller to the stars
he hasn't got a friend on earth
and there ain't no life on mars.