Nobody has time in the city of London for anyone else
The oceans lie to me.
Love is a bunch of chemicals.
I.Q. Tests are basically fraudulent.
The rich pay in cash, and moan and groan about it.
The poor pay with their health, and beat themselves about it.
And who hears the cries of the lonely and the desolate?
Such they say are the blankets to our beds.
Such is the happy talk round old street coffee tables.
Lost in the glass concrete marriage,
devoid of rule,
drunkards cry to their lords,
friends laugh around a joke.
And when the dust settles to empty pavements
The handsomely paid water down the streets.
Darkness lies around every corner,
hiding a depressing underbelly,
street walkers play parties inside hotel rooms now,
and the journalist witnesses the unfaithful actor,
his editor dialling a number for the wife at home.
How far away I am from myself,
only I know, I hear a man cry.
With only the power vested in these words,
the cobbles for home,
and cheap wine that hurts the gullet as it goes down,
and the burning liver,
Not for long I say, not for long.
Sitting on a park bench in Hyde park,
Riding the night through,
Watching the sun rise,
The pigeons flying high above the trees,
the lake glittering,
I looked at her,
a wide smile seeps out of her dreams,
as she sleeps soundly on my shoulder.