I arrived on Parliament Street, greeted by the smiling populace,
A cheery smile on every face,
Oh, how I love the place,
Mind you, I had my can of Mace!
I called in the Poundland shop,
Shoplifters were arguing, having a strop,
I didn’t want to eavesdrop,
So I didn’t stop!
I notice pedestrians crossing the road against the red lights,
But all was eerily quiet, no fights,
I bloke chucked out of Burger King, what a sight!
Another chap was as high-as-a-kite!
Then two gals started a cat-fight,
I ran away, and well, I might!
Clumber Street, I rested, the knees were stinging and tight,
Along came two men, one on crutches, the other on a bike,
I told the biker, it wasn’t right,
Driving so close to me on a bike,
He told me to take-a-hike!
Why do folks do this, I wonder why?
Two imitation policemen stood nearby,
They said and did nowt,
Cause they have no clout,
I moved on and gave a sigh!
Long Row, above the Yorkshire bank,
1833, bet these were built with pride and swank,
But such architecture goes unnoticed, to be frank,
By youngsters, with acne and a look that is blank,
To them, workmanship & beauty is not worth a Franc!
Long Row businesses, failing so so much now,
This shop used to be Burtons food store,
Where you could buy pork, bread or a cow,
I miss it more and more,
I can still smell the meat, somehow,
Though we couldn’t afford it, we were poor!
Ah, another pavement cyclist, for short, PC, I’ll call them,
One hand on his handlebar, texting on his phone in his hand,
He even spat out some horrible phlegm!
Some say they should be banned,
But not by the Greens or Lib-Dem!
A gathering of Nottinghamians resting,
Unemployed, students, and shoplifters?
The bored, the drunks, and Brexit debaters?
Look at their faces, it’s interesting,
They all glare at me, as if they hate us!
City Centre, Long Row, and, the Slab Square,
Architecture by Fothergill Watson, who was the absolute best!
The man was a genius, with skill and flair!
Better than all the rest,
And, I’m only being fair!
Queen Street, I nearly got hit by yet another PC,
Delivering food, perhaps pizza, burgers, or a fricassee?
Maybe once again, one will run into me?
But I carry my taser, just in case you see!
This rubbish was wrote during an evil spell of the dizzies and shakes,
By Inchcock, while he ate his supper, of cheesy cakes.
I fank you!