Scally in a tracky

with his orange bird.

Hanging on the corner,

not a sound is heard.

Her slap is perfect

and her hair just right,

She's in her PJ's

and her mouth is tight.

His hood is up.

He's packing tonight.

Her fluffy, pink slippers

are pinching alright.

The glad WAG's hiss

at the sad slags kiss,

of the muscle bound hunk

in the street,

is cut by the smack

of a slug in the back,

for the pimped up

prick dealing crack.

He drops in a pool,

the shooter is cool.

The city falls

dead again.

Scally in an alley

lying limp with lead.

She's pissed her PJ's.

Her dude is dead.