heeza face like an apprentice bee-keeper . . .

They’re no more than fifteen years old, and therez seven of them, in grey tracksuits wearing those freakin’ plimsoles that my colleague tried to sell me for twentie bucks last week.  Tee shirts worn with long sleeved tops in their handz and no one kan touch ‘em. 

The BIG boys, huh? 

Wednesday evening in Dublin and again itz dark and again itz wet. 

Normal service has resumed.

Smiling, and aggressively laughing they brush by me as I walk on the greased pavement, past the bags of rubbish outside the disposable stores, toward Grafton Street  to take some confectionary food; from the Burgher King.

 * * *

I’ve no smokes so itz good if I buy some. 

I’ve no beer, better get some too. 

Turning the corner three of the seven BIG boys face me, kans of Budd in their hands.  Behind them, two more are running from the way we live today . . . with more beer.  I pass them by and as I enter the off licence the final two gurriers leave shouting obscenities @ the two brown men and the one gay dude behind the counter and I think; I have fifty nine reasons now as to why I hate knackers . . . .

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