It has no heart for adventure.
It runs on cold sludge and grey skies.
They used to say it was shifting
towards the mitey Atlantic;
carried on by the surge of the Clyde.  
But the industry stopped working,
and the city stopped it's moving.
It lays, sad and beaten on its side.
The Clyde is now lined by ******
plastic. Homes for mannequins,
and not the people of Glasgow.
So I throw myself in the old
sickly river, and drift, and drift away.