Taut are the never ending cables,
Grind elevators through time shafts
Balance scrapers to the sky’s tilt,
Feather friendship to staircase
Of red double-decker buses.
Than a metaphor whore,
Building suburban cemeteries
To the pedal of London after midnight.
Show me the bones and I may
Write you a double-breasted suit
Angles of Angel Pub
Take wings on camera obscura
Lager lenses just become smaller.
Only thing civil about our service,
Garrison of garrulous secretaries
Emotions forted on lipstick stained napkins.
Madam Tussaude waved across skin
Stretchered waxen Harley Street patients
Carry(ing) On regardless, we left smut in
Sid James smeared glasses, left a crackling
Grin upon the barmaid’s skin.
Weller sweeps the Chapel of Rest
Weeping awhile across the smallest of faces,
The removal van’s final journey is just a jukebox away.
Adieu to the palest painter, chin-chin,
Hwylio'n uchel to the Cockney discotheque.
That, son, is entertainment