Full Breakfast

Fried bread, Lord, who's still not-been-fed not me, a little voice said who said that? A park duck or some hard-luck Indian fatherless kid. Eggs and bacon, God, is there no red ketchup or baked beans, hey kid, get up off your soiled knees. After collecting that plastic garbage with an iron hook in a cardboard box whilst your mother's outselling her body, with some pox-up jocks hey, can we have some grilled tomatoes, and black pudding and mushrooms on the side I'll have a coffee over here! It's rainy outside. Hey child - you'll soon be a bride! A suitor for you shouldn't be hard to find? Let's tip the waitress boys; she so looks suppressed depressed - but at least she's got a uniform and a collection fund and a council house and at the weekend-she's-pissed and jocund. Hell, I could eat another pork sausage! Later we'll go to, The Nags Head even-later-still, play some cribbage the wife-at-home can wait at home alone. I've got the waitress now to phone.