I swet my life ina Turkish bath I bin makin myself … for a Greek – Cypriot isan irony. Eh? An thas me … an irony. Is what I do. Irony, foa livin! Hah! You si what I do?

Cascades, they say, of stim, iz jet the heat, lika geyser, notta geezer – direc on the dresses I press with my spit – sizzlin industrial ion. I bin surroun by the fierce burning air, envelop I say, in it and by it. I hadda constantly hissing cobra in my han. My right arm, my pressing arm is comin direct from my swollen right hand. When is busy the heat is make me a bath in my own sweat. The back and front of my doc martin shirt, is stick to me, is cling to me, an my ves, like the golden gum glue you can by in the shop. My hard-earned, hones, sweet smellin sweat.