There were no stars,

There were no stars,

Sitting on the steps below Eros

The twinkling lights of Piccadilly

Were too bright,

Around the corner in Soho

Where Raymond once held a revue

Of ingenues and nere-do-wells

Which was as close to seedy

As a dive bar's smut

Less polished than the Windmill

Without the sophistication of the Strand

Full of invisibility,

Too many people going about their business

In disregard,

The steps were cold.

Playing the guitar is a mean old man

With a raspy vocal slur

Ready to rip out my throat

If I tried to steal his thunder

The beat was easy to keep

Without thinking

It was a way to pass the time

Waiting for a break.

One time we pitched up in Windsor

To play the blues for tourists.

A little worse for wear

We stumbled in front of the Queen's mother

Waving from a big black car

Brawny guys pushed us away

So many people cheering

They should have strewn Palm fronds.

Penguins wore suits and smoked reefers

In cloisters.

Privileged to be there but

Taking it for granted.

I heard Prime Minister's questions

From Westminster

Nothing ever changes.

We sang protest songs

Nobody understood

Too many people follow the leader

They signed up to

Without reading the small print.

The stars shone down

On Eton

They seemed very far away

From one another.

The spires were lightning rods

For the little soldiers

Practising their swagger

In formation.

Over the playing fields

Down the Thames path

And across the bridge to the Christopher Wren

Hotel

Where the best of them

Drank beer with tourists

Doing them a favour.

The worst-behaved danced a jig

On a Queen Anne table,

Cherry red.

Shades of old England

In a teenage smile

Young aristocrats brushing

Shoulders with new money

Seeking out a man

With a stash

To make their evening.

They would splash some cash

On something a little stronger

Than a roll-up

As “Who do you love”

Played in the background

On repeat

Bo-Diddley went unnoticed.