The city, she sleeps through pouring snores, and metaphors.
Before the invention of lying, but after the invent of glass.
Flea-trap second-hand shops, and record stores.
The tyranny we’ve come intent to pass.
The River is long, the path to Bath is beaten.
Taking long walks for short waters, I thirst.
The Thames is wide, the view from either side is sweet.
And Death stalks our sons and daughters, at first.