I live in the city. I notice its laughter
In noises it makes with delight.
I'll happily listen to traffic till after
The start of a warm summer night.

From dawn until dusk I could listen to buskers,
The jesters who beat tambourines,
The chancers and dancers who gather in clusters
That vaguely resemble routines,

The singers who linger nearby the fishmonger,
Beside the cake-maker and diner,
Hoping the smells will diminish their hunger
Till dinner from someone's bin-liner.

With luck they might purchase affordable food,
Some edible vegetable fakes.
Counterfeit meals can dispel a bad mood.
Desserts are allegedly cakes.

Crowds used to flock to a woman called Betty,
A model of poise in her pose.
She'd eat a baguette and a plate of spaghetti
While singing a song through her nose.

Her talent ensured that she made enough money
To buy proper food for her act.
She'd eat fresh-baked brownies with spoonfuls of honey
And two Snickers bars when she snacked.

I ventured out busking with songs of my own.
Their structures defied all convention.
My shyness meant I would perform them by phone,
And Betty got all the attention.

I hoped that my lyrics would greatly impress her.
I borrowed from Milton and Chaucer.
She fell for a busker, a former professor,
Who sang and drank milk from a saucer.

They ran off together and married in Brussels.
They left gaping holes on the street.
One spot was filled by two whistling Jack Russells
Who worked with a lewd parakeet.

Betty was quickly replaced by three dancers
Who contemplate life's inner meaning.
Ask them deep questions and they'll supply answers
Through dances, some mime or just leaning.