Dodgy

Venture into the market’s back‑street,
Where the stalls smell of marmalade dust,
And every trader’s smile looks a little—
No, not cheery… it’s the kind of dodgy trust.

A coin that’s rusty, a bottle that’s half‑filled,
And a gossip on the tram to Cornhill.
“Feel free to take a bite,” they hiss, with a grin,
Like a dodgy slice of Cheddar – between the worlds of good and still.

The night’s a faded, neon‑lit promise;
The cab driver sings a lullaby of dodgers, a tune so slippery.
But in the heart of London, under the galleries of black‑and‑white,
The dodgy is just another rhythm—awkward, yet still bloody delight.