Horsehead Lane

My lung-metre was ticking over the mooning dog-end. My tie had the dread-look. Almost blue eyes idiotically named a piece In The Wee Small Hours, which is the equivalent of saying "That's a giant big house!" But there's no feeling of regret or shame when you're planting the hard yards on Horsehead Lane.

I count Vampires among the closest. I braid proud donkeys until they are but snuffed powder. And I ate four fortnight's worth of weeks whilst holding out the mail in nocturnal military posts, each briefly-attired and temporarily-weary accounts of daily mathematics. But there's no fame to claim when you're lying teethless on Horsehead Lane.

My arms were empty (Military Triggers) and laid-off by teachers. My catch meant I had enough rain till the King lost his peaches. And my greatest feet had exclusively-clubbed cuff-linked toes. I was the least happy during morning time, mainly because the real noble and good recordings were ignored, leaving only the fauxs. But there's no one too tame or beyond blame when you're alone, unpaid on Horsehead Lane.

I was overarching the target with a gift-wrapped bow. I was fretting my lap with an arrogant crow, which was instrumental in making the blue lights blow, and confident in what agony-aunts know. But when you stop to lift the top off a red-light dame you find yourself staring at Horsehead lane.