by Nick Gisburne
I sell my wicked wares on smoky streets,
Perversities to please the vulgar man,
A barrow, full of cheap, forbidden treats,
Disguised, discreet, to ride around the ban.
The coppers turn a blind, collusive eye.
I slip them all a sample on the side.
Polite, I pass the ladies who decry
The very sins their husbands try to hide.
A dozen for a penny, three for two,
The merchandise is slipped inside a coat,
And every second Friday something new,
Delivered to the docks, by night, by boat.
The queen would splutter, choking on her tea,
To know the king buys fairy tales from me.
