Soho Sunsets

I enter after rolling from Picadilly

Left into Wardour, my hair stands up

Time slows down, they practice Tai Chi

The court yard of St. Annes'

One with a sword & a couple with fans

My skin still tingling in past they stood

Smoking cool but no mingling.
The Flamingo they called it, since the early 50's
Nods of acceptance & tapping feet
Pilled outta their heads on that Soho Street
I lived up that Street & worked for years
Where them ghosts still stand
Italian loafers click gears.

There is one ghost, 14 years old, his name's Marc Feld
His generations hopes he had once held.
Was he the best dressed 14 year old in the world? Probably.
Later known as Marc Bolan, but don't think Glam Rock
In superfine Mohair, in awe other Mods took stock.

His ghost walks away from the Town Maggazine interview 1962
Narrow lapels, 3 button tonic suit
Sharp creases split the smokey Brewer St air in two
Ever since have lived like him just a few.

So I get to know this place of grit, dirt, glamour & grime
My Dad told me tales that would justify crime
Then sat outside cafes, Bar Italia for one
Watching St. Martins students when their days were done
Drawing collars & cuffs off waiters fresh in from Milan
With their "new" strong cofee & year long tans.
A movement was happening, they'd felt it inside

Clicking fingers to Jazz - walking peacocks they'd stride

The Scene Club Ham Yard
They'd dance to 'n' fro
Then later appear on Ready, Steady Go
So the nation would follow once they'd seen them dance
On Fridays TV they'd watch in a trance
As details changed, evolved & grew
Only Faces pulled it off though everyone knew.

Marc Feld was a face, a top Mod you might say
For sharp new detail the highest price he would pay
To stay one step ahead of following cats
Who stood there wearing dutsy old pork pie hats
That he wouldn't be seen in dead or alive
Monday comes for new cuff links he'd strive
To head back to the streets later that week
Fresh back from Europe he'd pretend, to look lively & chic.

Can't imagine a 14 year old doin' that nowadays
A simple "innit blood, wassup" coming from his drug fuelled haze.

But fuck it Mods still exist! On Sunday nights they're there
At 6pm on Frith St. stare
You'll see them pull up, polished scooters with chrome
Still eyeing up a bird they'd love to take home.

Soho Sunsets with whores & pimps
Crackheads scrounge for their odds & sods
But believe me Soho belongs . . . . . .
Forever to Mods.