I can jump, Joe
just show me margie
off the ridge
or was it bridge
I forget or disremember or never heard
while the jickering guitar walks
in between the rows
the background swamps over the cutie,
knocks, swirling discs of kicking
sound
the little kid bursts in, flinging naked ladies
and the thin faced cornerstand man
smiles tubercularly
passes the yellow record over
and smiles again, thinking of his live
sound
the sad, old fashioned bounce and whine
the rubber strings and flexible voice
the London streets never wobbled
like the snatching picking
let down like gently dropping cargo
on a multiple metal crane
a five string banjo
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