ESSEX TO CALIFORNIA:
The lift stinks with the acid bite of too much aftershave,
I’m drowning in game faced suits pumped on testosterone,
who wouldn’t stand a chance in the pubs back home.
Found the porridge & a quiet table, though until I completed
the cocktail with a hit of black tea I’m a man holding his breath.
Another jump through the skyhole, leaving the sweet green curves
of Mother Essex for the blacktop snakes of Hollywood, diner time,
I love American diners, wheat toast, raisin bran & black tea,
note book keen for the pen dance – listening.
Back in the heartland of American Graffiti, Booker T & Green Onions,
Steve Cropper is still the man, telecaster scythe cutting grooves
with wire spikes of classic Fender tones. If it’s good enough for
Steve, it’s good enough for me, pass me mine, I need to funk,
JB on the headphones groovin’ ‘Payback’, all the way from Romford
to LA & back.