I was an allotment child
From a city of cabbages and paint peeled doors
Son to the lime and the compost heap
With an eye for a top grade manure.
My Father was a big veg hunter
I watched as he ate his asparagus raw
Dragging the carcasses of Calabrese and Kale
Through the streets to divide between the old and the poor
With the silent way of the water butt
With the mystery of a tight locked hut
Like a creosote loo with a concrete floor
With the medicated paper out of reach on the door
No, this was not a place of play
A place of dusty hard won days
Where flat capped feudal barons still held sway
And snapped up plots from half baked fools who played
Like Wolf spiders watching
With a jack Russell bite
With the Brassaca鈥檚 tang and the coming of the night
Yes I was an allotment child
When it was still a very, very serious business
made his name as a writer performer in the Rock clubs and underground Cabaret venues of mid nineties London. 
