London it is cursed,
With voices so, so cheap,
It must be in the world the worst.
As they in misery all keep.
Even if Londoners yet do not know,
What in them the voices kill,
As they on public transport go,
The voices make them in their souls quite ill.
One day they will awake,
And note that they in soul are sick,
Too late a medicine to take,
As they the damage can’t unpick.
But they’ll live on without a soul,
Who as people are not whole,
And know not their environs.
They will not think,
As the voices thinking stop,
Nor will they of life’s pleasures drink,
Their minds being turned to glop.
But as London now does slowly die,
And thoughts begin to still,
Who will for the city cry?
Will it feel the world feel a chill?
But then the rich won’t care,
They public transport do not use,
And they’ll also think it fair,
To the people for their own mental death accuse.
---May 20, 2009---
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