We were country boys

We were country boys

Tortured by the fear of servitude

To the land,

Before the coal seam

The Bessemer converter

The shipyard

Indentured employment

Took its place.

None of which quelled

The thirst

For adventure

The need to escape

The confines

Of our past

The heritage of the yoke

The lure of the city.

A naive ignorance

Of duplicity

The dirt of its streets

The deceit

Of its statues to power

The chicanery of corruption

Hidden in every peel of bells.

The old lady of Threadneedle Street

Holds tightly to her coin

No matter the cost

Her coffers are always full

To overflowing

Tumbling

Across the cobbles

To the foot of St Paul’s.

As the stink of poverty

Rose in the muddied jumble

Of a riverside

Full of Hawkers.

A gaggle of dippers and vendors

Barrow boys and gawkers

Pasty faces and snotty noses

Pressed

Against shop windows

As pretty ladies in high fashion

Dressed mannequins

In bedroom silk

Too many dreams were

Broken before morning.

The city swallows so many

Callow youths whole

While others lose their soul

Fighting their way

Through the muck and mire

Drawn to a different kind

Of servitude,

A master of disguise

An idol with two faces

A head and a tail

The diety of lucre

The bounty of wealth

As far from the yoke of the land

As they could ever be

But no more,

Maybe even less,

Free.