He rises up off the dump like rising damp,

with a reek that comes at you

out of the swamp of his face, and fixes you

with his glittering eye.

You are only a boy, but a boy

with coins in your pockets, shillings that jingle

up Vale Street and give you away

as a man of means.

He leans into you, cranking his bones down

from a height, his stare so close

you can see the hair in his nose, and catches

your elbow in one skinny hand.

You anticipate the demand he will make

and shake your head, denying the coins

you have saved for a Beano, a gobstopper,

aniseed balls, Parma violets and Spangles.

He rears up and hisses. They say

he is a vampire, they say he killed a boy,

he eats rats when he can’t find children,

he escaped from the Mental

so you stand very still when he swoops

back to get you. His hair tangles with yours.

If ye caan’t help a mate with a pound

when he’s down, yer a fuckin’ shithead.