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Halo! Thaire, welcome to London, passport check, hey, start a tour, but don't trust the underground; it's a killer. Its winding and binding water-hose ways will amuse confuse, and just might abuse you. Take this tunnel train #45 into the underground, to Holbrum, 3 stops, then swing it to Piccadilly. It's close to swing-high discos, and the cheap frills there are not as low as Sohos'. Looking out a cafe window, I sit watching the drunken people on Soho street. I turn toward my waiter and say, "Yes, headwaiter, where is my hotel route?" Rude waiter responds with some joking phrase, "What do I look like Mary Poppins' boyfriend covered with soot!" But, let me get back to the British basics and all roads lead toward Big-Ben. The exchange rate here will murder you; it only costs a heart and a lung, and if you're lucky maybe only 1.8972 American to British. This place, this country, full of creative flow, which overlaps into the basin of a stopped-up sink, is great. But toward my hotel in Liverpool, I got mugged (Did you?) I handed over my money, at fist-point, but, it only cost a pound or so. Ho! That accent, that anti-redneckish way, and their Bobbies go in and out of the alleys, and onto the streets. They're mad as all the insane ones of Holbrum mental ward #53. I saw most of the sights, Big Ben, Wesminster Abbey. I saw all the streets, Liverpool, Piccadilly, Soho. I saw enough, and that, was too much for me Who gives a care? I am going home anyway! Back to the home of the plain old Golden Arches of 'McDonalds,' and 'Burger King' apple pie.
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Hey some of your poems links!
I might put them on my poetry page!
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