Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.