Even as your hands would cling tight to it
your mind will let it go and your body rests
in ignorance of what you'll never know.

in the underpass that underpins the goings on above
there is scant regard or need for anything to do with love,
and the lights are painted red
and the walls are black with slime
and still, we cling to what has gone
until what has gone has gone for one more time

and we are hostages to the hostels
and the ransoms are our stories
to be noted down by men with frowns
some in cassocks
and some in gowns
and we learn to pray for our food each day
and for a sermon from the host.

Lincoln's Inn will provide providence and the final slide
and we'll bow before the Beak, silent,
we were not allowed to speak,
and who would hear us anyway?