(If you don't know who this is your life is indeed impverished)

 

Grimy windows, door jammed shut

Fat man snoring, scratching gut

Empty bottle – he's half cut

Beware though, it's a sham.

His suit is from Exchange and Mart

Fat man wakes up with a start

Snoring broke by his own fart

The Legend – Jackson Lamb.

 

Big toe protruding from his sock,

Waiting for his misfit flock

Scratching next his balls and cock

Then coughs and heaves and gags;

He grimaces and takes a sup

Of last night's coffee from a cup

Cold and stained and then lights up

His first of many fags.

 

Whiskered jowls and greasy hair

Poke the tiger if you dare

Best watch your step – there's danger there

Unless you've brought a dram;

You may think that he's unaware

With eyes so glazed in vacant stare

But he knows well enough you're there

The Legend – Jackson Lamb.

 

Once a Joe behind The Wall

Answering his country's call

But was he pushed or did he fall?

He couldn't give a damn.

He doesn't do regret, remorse

Is he himself a Park Slow Horse?

No-one knows for sure, of course,

The Legend – Jackson Lamb.