From stately Georgian houses 

The summer evening fills

With Georgian ladies’ laughter

As they meet to dance Quadrilles

Their laughter tinkles down the years

From Hope and Rodney Street

On wreaths of smoke it gently steers

Their tiny Georgian feet

So delicate the tracery 

Of plastered ceiling coves

Fanlights warmly candlelit

And Palladian porticoes

The city ...

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A golden apple hangs aloft,

corrupt flesh - rotten to the core

and when it falls, it lays a while

until the vermin come to gnaw.

A bloody tide, ebbs and flows

against Britannia’s exposed shore

while God’s still lapping his sinners up

In distant, godless, fucking war.

A Tory with a mouth of lies

feeds the rich and damns the poor -

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