The London Tube Word (Berk)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Ah, there we were, crammed in that 1972 Stock carriage on the Northern Line, November 5th, 1985, 5:30 PM sharp.
The air thick with damp wool and stale Players cigarettes.

[Verse 1]
Nephew Timothy, all of eighteen, fumbling his ticket stub,
clips it wrong way round in the conductor's puncher,
ink smudges on his thumb like a thief's mark.
I says to him, under the fluorescent hum,
'You great berk, hold it steady, it's not a love letter.'
He grins, sheepish, as the train lurches from King's Cross.

[Chorus]
Berk, from Berkeley Hunt, rhyming slang born in East End alleys, 1937, Eric Partridge jotted it down in his dictionary,
pages yellowed like old Evening Standards left on seats.
But Mrs. Patterson, bless her, sat across in her tweed coat,
thinks it's just another word for fool, nods politely,
sips from her styrofoam cup of milky Tetley, spilling a drop on the moquette.

[Verse 2]
The carriage sways, brakes screeching like a fox in the night,
smell of fried bacon from a greasy paper bag, forgotten underfoot.
Timothy laughs, 'Uncle, what's a berk really?' I lean in,
whisper the full phrase over the rumble, his eyes widen like saucers.
But I keep it light, pat his worn leather jacket,
elbow patches frayed from too many pub crawls in Camden.

[Bridge]
Partridge knew, 1894 to 1979, the man who trapped words like butterflies,
pinned 'berk' to the page, a fool's cap with a vulgar root.
Mrs. Patterson overhears, smiles, 'Boys will be boys,' unaware of the hunt it rhymes with.
The Tube dives deeper, 22 degrees stuffy against the 5-degree chill outside.

[Verse 3]
We spill out at Highgate, nephew clutching his half-eaten bacon roll,
crumbs on his lapel, me chuckling at the old slang's secret life.
Berk, soft now, like a nudge in the ribs, but born sharp in 19th-century markets.
Mrs. Patterson waves goodbye, thinking it's harmless as a crossword clue.

[Outro]
Ah, London Tube words, they carry more than passengers,
from Berkeley to berk, a fool's journey underground.