Seven storeys up,
and the city is dead.
The buildings are dead,
the people inside them are dying.
False sprawling, false lively,
the sky smells of corruption.
The houses of people that I hate,
the schools that breed the hatred.
The church at the top of the hill
stands grey and alone, desperate.
Everything is grey like the fumes from the buses,
everything is dead; London is a cemetery.
Treacle Heart 