Amsterdam
In late Nineteen eighty two
i was feeling very frail.
And on this occasion
went a bit off the rails.
Not really knowing
Who I am
I took myself off
To Amsterdam.
There I met a mate
Who was a little bit gone
Always called himself
by the name of Mad John.
He set me up there
with a nice little number.
Something to do,
A nice little number.
It was looking out
for the people in need.
And selling them
a little wrap of speed.
My partner was welsh
and definitely mad.
Truth to be told
I was just as bad.
We were never gonna be rich.
Just drink and drugs and rock and roll.
And a little bit of sex
to lighten the mood,
every now and then
a bit food.
My speciality was
the English tourist.
There looking for thrills
And other
exploitational often perverse means of taking advantage of poorer people by using the power of money to exploit the poorest suffering masses who exist in an unrecorded sub class of internationally aware middle class western society even then with poorer immigrants as, usually, the unwilling victims.
So I ripped them off
Nothing noble
Nothing free
Just a five quid deal
Worth three.
But Mad John
had to.
I asked him
not to,
But he had to.
So he went and dealt
Our speciality ware
In someone else’s pub.
Broke an unwritten rule
I nearly went spare.
Next thing I knew
It happened so quick
Mad Johns face
Carved like a stick.
And with the cuts
a message sent not by text
Your his mate so
that makes you next.
With a little thought
I said goodbye
To all my friends I’d
Met on the fly.
Dave the Canadian pimp,
His four girls from Leeds.
Who I’d helped
in a body guard manner
As they plied their trade
In the posh hotels Amsterdammer.
And Nosh and Cath
Who owned the bar
The lovely old Swan
Where we sat and planned
our glowing futures.
And sometimes slept.
So on the ferry
Back I skived
No better off
Then when I arrived.
But another corner turned
Big lesson learnt.
The wisdom that burned.
This time I’d gone.
If yer gonna do business
Don’t pick Mad John.
