Streets

Dark wet wandering course of toil
Laid upon our native soil
Monument of forgotten hope
Guiding chain where once was rope
Around the neck of honest right
Of ways to reach the coming night
On streets a symbol of deliverance
Named in desperate significance.
Destinations yet uncertain
Familiar force of occupation
Within the sanctuary of our pride
Our new found voice, the coming tide
Of insignificance undeserved
Jock Tamson’s bairns unpreserved
Among the gathered sycophants
Who are the crude inhabitants.
Sussex, Surrey, Gloucestershire
The London fog uprooted mire
The fashion conscious take the floor
Obscurity behind the door
Where once the lion rampant flew
A sickened beast, red white and blue
So raise the voice in noble lede
And remember those among our deid.

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