A rude dawn over the city Where Pepys once fought with his beautiful wife After seducing whatever servant-girl chanced To be around, where kings First ruled from cold castles full of cockroaches, Murderous cousins Lurking through the baleful halls of history Eyeing the empty throne. The stinking River long shorn of fish sweeps elegantly before The crimson petticoats of multiple ****** Promenading along Thames Street, Winking at under-washed gallants.
Vauxhall gardens a pithy cavalcade of priests and doxies, Of flower girls, flaxen haired girls selling fruit, Anxious to reach home before the ****** hour of early Evening when beaus gather in alley ways establishing A testosterone gauntlet in the dust-spawned gloom.
The road to Tyburn is littered with lost hopes! On hanging day bodies swung like debutantes dancing To jazz tunes- Aristocrats quartered with precision squealed like common folk, Bleeding as much. The city watched all this And didn’t murmur-never complained- Smiled, as only a city can smile, at gin-drunk matrons, pie eating aldermen And the ****** activity in street shadows by relieved young women on VE day 1945.