Eden bloomed on rubble, twisted iron and exposed cobbles,

out of the primordial slum, green with pride.

That heretics would ever stop their cruel and wicked ways

Would away with their being, we must pray for our holy garden.

Their heresy distorts the truth, they follow a precious weight,

worth every ounce. This leaves poor Eden up the canal without a yacht,

this living plot, a handsome cost.

Fond memories of a pond, fish and frogs and newts,

Worth less than a wasteland, this is learned at an early age.

My brother said his dad had promised him a dynasty,

we’ll see, I’ve never met him, his dad that is.

I wondered if my dad had a vision for me as I played with the presents he left me,

But big brother was watching.

A balcony that looked over a square, I looked out like Caesar, semi-circular, coliseums

Filled with gladiators, slaves and the bloodthirsty mob.

My dad would answer, when I called, and I would always ask him.

The overpass split the slum from the mills, it was useful to sleep hands near machinery.

But the mills were corpses, shattered glass and barbed wire,

This place was for us, the only place worse was a box full of maggots, six feet in the sewers.