If you're minding your own, on the Central Line,  

and your head suddenly fills, with that old Ragtime, 

don’t look for the source in the windows or gables, 

the chimney pots, rooftops, or patio tables, 

that soulful trombone’s not from the Friday street markets, 

or sheet metal workers, under mossy brick arches, 

it'll be Latimer Road Station, you'll hear Dixieland traces, 

the old platform’s the same, as are most of the faces, 

but a hundred years have passed, in this corner downtown, 

days of suffrage, steam, and Sweet Georgia Brown, 

when a puzzle of monkeys chose their day to escape, 

grabbed a pint at The Pig, some bananas and grapes, 

swing up to the viaduct, to put on their show, 

with a New Orleans gusto, and a banjo tango. 

Even now, did you see, or was it just me? 

saw those colourful waistcoats, a jazz monkey spree? 

jump through the train window, and out through the wall, 

halting only to swing round the bright yellow pole; 

The brazen band leader, blows a silvery trumpet, 

pointed high to the skies, red fezz on his barnet, 

the second was smaller, strummed a battered banjo, 

in a bow tie and nothing, but a warm afterglow, 

then hot on their heels, came the big bass drum-drummer, 

keeping rhythm in West London, and deep south Louisiana, 

hear the carriage filled the sound of sunshine, 

marching bands, white gloved hands, Blues O’Clock Party time, 

then quick-disperse-scatter, the old circus owner jumps in, 

through the roof with his net and his monkey catcher grin, 

‘Come ‘ere you little tinkers, after all that I’ve done, 

why’d you treat me this way?... you’ve had all your fun!’ 

So, for only a moment, if you were paying attention, 

might you witness the commotion at this old railway station, 

when green grocers, and draymen, and newspaper sellers, 

lost their apples, their patience, and hats and umbrellas,  

when the old underground, was filled with the sounds,   

of Dukes, Counts and Bessies, and monkey playgrounds.