… and there they parade, from Westwood to Vuitton,
with no care for the public and nicotine principalities.
Taking choice of the 99% fat free yoghurts.
Clearing the aisles with the pristine click of every patent leather shoe.
They giggle through their noses, heading in packs,
armed with alpen bars to face the rest of the day.
Tartan umberellas with matching handbags,
Mustard yellow with brown. Apparantly ‘in season’.
A cut above the Adidas blur heading towards the hallowed kebab house.
Fag after Stella. Stella after Joint.
It’s always a case of Ferrari v’s Ford.
Both still get dented if you’re not careful at the roundabout.