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Rusty Broadspear

He takes the streets by storm,
Always in different guises,
Strutting, sloping, sliding,
Geared up for any surprises

Doesn't want a hindrance,
Plays life like solitaire,
On a sole crusade, behind his shades,
Projecting exquisite flair

After hours of groundwork,
Takes a taxi to the streets.
Streetlights reflect much respect,
From everyone he greets

City nightlife, bedlam to most,
He has it vainly sussed.
All he needs is looks and smiles
And a smidgeon of distrust

During the day, known as Andy,
The dour, palefaced, checkout bloke.
Not one to argue the bill with,
Or in any way provoke.

Bass beat floods the pavement,
Cars stop, despatch, drive away.
Shops display but are not selling,
Compelling, for him to survey

The night's alive and warm,
Black suit over black t-shirt,
Long black hair gelled backwards,
Andy doesn't have to flirt.

All eyes see him, want to be with him,
To know him - this man of cool.
Regardless of sex, they glimpse,
Admire and quietly drool.

We've all seen jerks like Andy,
Who don't quite know who they are.
Are they playing the fiddle or plying a riddle
Or strumming their Fender guitar?

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