The Busker

There was a time I was a busker. My career wasn’t long.
I used to hang around outside the shops and murder Beatles songs
Until proprietors called coppers, who would turn up with a frown
And say, “They’ve offered you a fiver if you’ll play another town.”
The trouble was the streets were noisy, and in order to be heard,
You had to belt the songs out with such force it buckled all the words.
From time to time a lonely housewife stayed a while and watched me play,
Then asked me home, at which point I would just pack up and walk away.
When it rained I busked the markets. When it snowed I busked arcades.
And by night I slept in shelters eating bread and marmalade,
Then gate-crashed other people’s houses, borrowed food and hung about,
Until eventually they’d had enough and paid me to get out.