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Potholes and tramstops, I’m waiting for God, empty shops, barley and hops are brewing, hip hop is in the blood, Asian ladies in flip flops with a yummy smile like a ham and cheese toastie, a Victorian writer drinks a pint in the Charles Dickens tavern, everyone looks for a safe haven. Weaned from the breast, the full moon, empty nest, Indian chief at the bar, his children are the stars in the sky, the homeless are hustling fir a little loose change on the dusty road outside, and the cops are using their muscles on the vulnerable.

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