They jump from bridges round here,

Get blamed for delaying the traffic,

Tie blooms to the railings and leave them to wither,

to remind us we die if we need to remember.

 

Three days for the flowers to wilt

One less in the swelt of the summer

Deadheads bow brown in a semblance of grief

For the blood and bone bedlam that played out beneath.

 

They name bars after illness round here

Like it's funny how many go Cuckoo

In a town full of locals that self-medicate

The CPN made her referral too late;

 

In estate agents' bluster it isn't made clear,

They jump from bridges round here.