London

(With apologies to the late Sir John Betjeman)

Come, friendly bombs, and lance Great Wen!
It isn’t fit for mortal Ken.
Let poor and hungry leave, and then
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and shatter in your blitz
Apartments owned by moneyed shits,
Owned bricks, owned roads, owned signs, owned glitz,
Owned minds, owned breath.

Mess up the mess they call Square Mile
Reduce to rubble, glass and tile
That aspirational lifestyle
For ever more

And get the men who broke the banks
Who see their wanton deeds as pranks
Who take, but find mere giving thanks
A kind of bore

And smash each privatizing scheme
And smash each priv’leged person’s dream
And thunder on, while they yet scream
How life’s unfair

But spare the underclass who toil
And thus become the rich man’s foil
It’s not their fault their efforts oil
Their own despair

It’s not their fault they do not know
They lost their city long ago
It’s not their fault they often go
To Brighton Pier

And talk of Top Gear or TOWIE
Ironically or straight, with glee
And do not think, while by the sea,
To stop, and hear

In homes they can’t quite leave, with care
Their children – Poppy, Oliver –
Infuriate the poor au-pair
Beyond belief

Come, friendly bombs, and lance Great Wen!
Reduce to Shards that old Big Ben
And find in your profound amen
Blessed relief