GOBS of rain that ride the wind, and sweep the City streets,
Through cars and buses and trains and bikes, a never-ending fleet,
Rushing bodies with stinging faces, assailed by a devilish drizzle,
A hundred odours plague my nose, as a thousand burgers sizzle.
Wherefore art thou, England? Must you remain a dream?
Of days of yore in tales of old, no visions can be seen.
Existence is pure drudgery, knee-deep I wade through slime,
Hustling, busting, rarely smiling – but hoping all the time.
Oh, to have a scabbard! With sword of gleaming steel!
That cultural turncoats by the score my bottled wrath would feel.
Through mists of thick pollution, ‘neath skies of barely blue,
Coughing, spluttering, double-deckers that yield a motley crew.
Cardiac-ridden commuters, devoid of all reaction,
A legion of headless bus-queues, the penalty for inaction.
My satiated, blood-red blade, that drips with Liberal gore,
Now thirsts for bloated usurers and bankers by the score.