I talked to the flowers, they wilted and died, I talked to the butterflies. They shivered and curled up and fell to the ground, I looked to the heavens and cried: 'Lord, is this Death from within me? A cancer growing inside?' The sky turned black, the cold wind sighed. 'It comes from your heart,' came the booming reply, 'Now fuck off, your breath stinks.'

One of my most attractive habits is to stagger along the road, bottle of oxygenated hydrocarbons in hand, surveying the sidewalk for inadequately smoked cigarettes. Such is the wasteful nature of mankind that one can easily accrue a bagful before lunchtime, ranging from the barely-dragged reefer discarded at the bus stop to the ground-out cremations of the profesional fumigant.

I may then spend a pleasant afternoon either completing the smoking process or cannibalising the remains for the creation of my own distinctive brand of fags, washed down with a swig of de-icing fluid.

Never let it be said that Mister Tramp does not recycle. Read my packaging carefully. I am an altogether Green Free-Range Fair-Trade Organic Fat-Free Tramp and no mistake.
Caution: Unsuitable for Vegetarians. May contain nuts.

One of the benefits of roaming the city streets is the lack of babies lying about the place. I have enough trouble traipsing through the detritus of humanity as it is without overgrown foetuses clinging to my ankles. Invariably, when these goblins do emerge grimacing into the sunlight they are surrounded by an oestrogenic gurgle of illiteracy. The babbling crowd increases, sucking in all-comers like an old Coney Island freak show until each visitor has paid their two-cents worth of 'Ohhh isn't he adorable!'

It seems incumbent on me to point out that in no way are babies aesthetically pleasing. They are podgy bundles of lopsided, under-developed, ill-fitting limbs. They are adorable to the masses only because they are helpless, utterly dependent and incapable of expressing their simplest desires by means of language. They weep more pathetically than any Hollywood starlet could manage in the arms of Cary Grant. Their only obvious output apart from noise is a tidal wave of filth that reminds me chiefly of the Thames under Battersea Bridge, replete with supermarket trolleys, rotting corpses and discarded boots. I could almost admire them for this last quality, if it were not for the fact they have absolutely no idea what they are doing.

And so it was that an acquaintance of mine approached me with news that his loins had finally sired offspring. He immediately began reaching for his mobile phone, and asked if I wished to see a photograph of the little fiend.

'Nahh,' I replied, recoiling in disgust. It took great effort on my part not to add: 'I'd rather see a picture of your last shit.'

Two hundred tramps riding supermarket trolleys down the High Street flinging garbage at the respectables, howling at the scrapers, downing cocktails of Chanel No 5 and White Spirit as they pass a giant advertising board dominated by the words 'Chi non fotte e fottuto!' and singing their favourite anthem:

Alone on the clouds all blue,
lying on an eiderdown,
Yippee you can't see me, but I can you.

Lazing in the foggy dew,
sitting on a unicorn.
No fear, you can't hear me but I can you.

Watching buttercups come to light,
Sleeping on a dandelion.
Too much I won't touch you but then I might.

Streaming through the starlit skies,
travelling by telephone.
Hey ho, here we go, ever so high....

[(c) Syd Barrett]

Now, you sees, moustaches don't grow on trees, the old man said, as I polished his head with the pith of a Valencia Orange. If you come across a specimen, detach it immediately, before it flies away. He flapped his hands like a bird and laughed. You missed a spot, he added, and with a gouty finger indicated the bony protusion on his Crown. I applied the garlic paste with vigour.

He took me to the Square, a pair of binoculars dangling from his truss. Seconds later we spotted our prey, an Austrian gentleman with curlicued whiskers, brown loafers and epaulettes of dandruff.

We cat-crawled quietly behind him, striped stockings protecting both arms to the elbow. The Austrian was preoccupied talking to a girl in soiled white shoes. Gently, said the old man in my ear, gently. I reached out my quaking hand, my fingers sweating minty Vaseline. NOW, shouted the old man a moment too soon, and as I leapt the Austrian turned in alarm, my fingers clawing at his mottled face.

I fell to the gutter heavily. In my right hand was the Austrian's nose. It contained a modicum of hair but no moustache. With that my prey turned and ran, his whiskers flapping with great elan, phut-phuttering noisily until finally he took off and drew up his undercarriage. I attempted to pursue as he hovered above the ground in a sitting position but with a great Whoop he soared 100ft in the air and disappeared over the Palace wall.

We ran bow-legged back to camp, the snout still clutched in my right hand. Damn damn damn, said the old man. He handed me his catheter and in return took the Austrian's nose. But at least we have this, he added. He put it to his mouth and blew forcefully through both nostrils. I heard nothing. The old man licked his lips and tried again. Nothing. He cocked his ear and said, Listen, listen. And then the ground began to shake.

It must be admitted that little about its design is anatomically correct. Its performance was also slightly disappointing. However, it is only a prototype. These things take time.