The Kings Of Dirty alleyways

I give my mate a croggy
when he walks to Vernon Park,
his black eyes are always open
and he's game for any laugh.
He's six-feet-two from head to foot
and he grips with vice-like claws,
my BMX is twice as slow
when he's holding down the forks.

Voice louder than a foghorn,
and his stare's a certain thing
that cuts its way through tarmac
and clears space with people in:
he's my shotgun vigilante
big ears flapping in the wind,
we're the kings of dirty alleyways
and overflowing bins.

I know he's got my back but still
there are times I have my doubts:
when he chases after pussy
with his fat tongue hanging out;
when he's cocking legs at lamp-posts
and his breath's hot on my neck,
'cos he wants to catch up quicker
with the day-glo arse ahead.

He's always after something,
calls it "following his nose"
(which itself just can't stop twitching
though it's snorted more than most),
but I guess it's not surprising
that it's not all fun and games,
when you're giving doggy croggys
to a bloody great Great Dane!