(In lieu of William Blake’s 255th — ahem — Birth Anniversary)
I wander by the once charter lake
Where once the charter stink did blow
And wonder in the name of William Blake
As to where the hell that smell did go.
In every cry of street salesmen,
Exiles placed on the pavement side,
They dash out wares and goods, but then
They should have made the pavement wide.
Taxi drivers through traffic shove and horn
Sweet music on fragile human ear.
Narrow streets, some fucker to another fucker born
Change from a lower to the ultimate gear.
But most after eight, at night you may list
To the murmur of an abandoned town asleep.
With ambitious Policemen, half drowned in mist,
A quick buck to pocket the grim shadows keep.