I remember the sudden icy blast
That chilled me to the bone
The first time I heard his six-string dirge
And his not so dulcet tones

Like cuts of meat on Butchers hooks
Stood to the right and zombified
Descending Green Park escalator
On the day that the music died

For perched at the bottom with guitar in hand
The most painful songsmith to be heard in years
With his beloved Jack Russell on a tartan rug
Whining with its paws clamped across its ears

He was a lousy Bob Dylan impersonator
With a voice like a constipated Alligator
And whichever station I'd be at
Spookily I would find him sat
Strumming at the bottom of the escalator

I jumped the nearest train, relieved
He was almost as bad as Milli Vanilli
So imagine my shock to find him again
Crooning " Strawberry fields " at Piccadilly

He was a Beatles classic annihilator
Voice better suited as a sprinkler activator
And at whichever station I'd alight
I would feel his shadow, dark as night
Wailing at the bottom of the escalator

I tried to run, I tried to hide
Ears plugged against his dross
But the guy was warbling once again
When I got to Charing Cross
I fleed him here, I fleed him there
I fleed the bastard everywhere
From Marble Arch to Leicester Square
But no escape from his tonsil-blare

He was a Led Zep epic assassinator
A serial eardrum perforator
An ideal bomb-alert evacuator
Hated even more than a Stasi interrogator
And whichever station I'd be at
He'd do his impressions of a strangled cat
Screeching at the bottom of the escalator

In a way I felt some sympathy, he hadn't raised much money
Just an occasional absent coin toss, from those who thought him funny
But nothing more than coppers in a dirty plastic cup
So I offered him a tenner just to shut the bloody hell up

But his eyes just stared right through me
I sensed paranormal forces
To my horror he droned on obliviously
With his ' version ' of " Wild Horses "

He was a Rolling Stones abominator
A rush-hour commuter agitator
A full-scale public riot instigator
I dreamed of his guitar in an incinerator
And no matter where I'd be, no matter at which station
He'd be squawking with a voice that could inspire mass migration
Doing Ringo headshakes by the escalator

So eventually I flipped my lid, stood beside him and applauded
I shouted to the multitudes, " This genius should be lauded "
" I've never heard a singer before, who can't hit one single note "
" And he plays guitar with all the grace of a Hyena clearing its throat "
Yet the people turned and stared at me, as if I was the screwball
Not one of them glared at the Busker as he cranked out Mott the Hoople

Then he turned to me and laughed with all the warmth of a fatal virus
His eyes were wide and whitened, with no pupil and no iris
My heart it froze and nearly stopped, my shock seemed to assure him
Then he floated down onto the tracks, it was the last time that I saw him

Later I read a story of how a Busker met his end
A city-type could take no more, it was driving him round the bend
He had grabbed him by the collar, and at West-bound Chancery Lane
He flung the Busker and himself beneath a moving train