Waxy Pan, Hot Dog Man

hot dog vendor's stall at night

Waxy Pan, hot dog man,
Stained string vest with overhang.
Women in the streets they sang,
Hey Waxy! Love your greasy tan!

Searching tops of night bus stops, 
He hunts for all discarded drops.
Morsels to be reconstituted,
Ground and chopped, with oil diluted.
Debris from double deckers flung,
Pasties, crisps, to name just some.
Scavenging each kerb and alleyway,
Down tunnels where the buskers play.
Leftover crumbs from city slickers,
Some tipsy tart’s discarded knickers.

Waxy Pan, hot dog man,
Abattoir inside his van,
Children in the streets they sang,
“If he can’t cook it no one can!”

Could make this meat of mystery?
Drunkard’s sick and tender louse,
In cauldron mixed with eye of mouse,
Wing of pidge from Nelson’s hat,
Fleas pinched fresh from sewer rat.
Rotten corpse dragged from the Thames,
What flavour to the mix this lends!
Then scarf of whore and shoe of tramp,
With onion sizzle by street lamp.

Waxy Pan, hot dog man,
Rejects no meat from creed or clan,
Hippies in the street they sang,
“Prime minister? I wish you’d ran!”

And when there are no precious scraps?
He takes his net to hunt out cats!
Pouncing with athletic skill,
‘Tween roof and ridge, pane and sill,
Of London’s shops and nightclub venues,
This inventive chef of tourist menus.
He sets his cunning moggy traps,
And swoops upon these furry wraps.
Just admire the job he’s done,
For cats in town, I’ve not seen one.

Waxy Pan, hot dog man,
I hear not everyone’s a fan.
Terrorists in the street they sang,
“Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!”

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