They wander thro’ the darken’d street,
Near where the Trust’d Swan does flow.
And mark on every trunk they meet
Chucks of chipness, spews of woe.
In every hurl of every Man,
In every Dickheads cry for beer,
In every voice: in every van,
The mind-fuck’d lachrymal I hear.
How the Traffic-managers cry
Every Shaming sign appalls,
And the witless Drivers sigh
Runs in ash down Hotel walls.
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the meth-ful shit-faced curse
Blasts the fresh-mown verge with beer
And blights the air with rudeness terse.
(With apologies for any inconveinience to Willy Blake.)