Friday, June 24, 2005
A midsummer London night's dream (with apologies to Oberon and Titania)
I don't know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
I do know a bench where the old tramps doze,
With tar-stained teeth and threadbare clothes;
Quite over-powered with meths and cheap ale,
With their life in a bag, and with odour stale.
I do know a park where the teenagers pose,
Where tarty girls hang out with hooded bro's;
Quite over-dressed with fake market-bought bling,
With pure white trainers, and with diamond earring.
I do know a ditch where the dank sewer flows,
Where trolleys rest and old newspaper blows:
Quite over-ridden with fat rats and midges,
With brown rusting cans, and with discarded fridges.
I do know a street where the slums stand in rows,
Where no woman ventures and no taxi goes;
Quite over-flowing with guns and sharp knives,
With pensioners in fear for the rest of their lives.
I do know a London where the wild crime grows,
No rural scene in Shakespearean prose;
Quite over-burdened with sin it seems,
But still a magic land of dreams.