Milk-stone tiling, with some
figure-hugging brown
and Castleton's ceiling pervading;
cement works, cement works,
on my mind.

The shroud of Christ's teachings
is left in damp upon the soap-fused wall.

Fan beating in aggressive pleasure,
it staves off stagnancy,
instead cleaning all humidity
with purity of essence.

Cleansed, cleansed,
the soaps are tinted in poisonous colours,
lethal toad and paradise mountain,
you scale all levels of disappointment,
to leave in want of better investment.

As in all politics, each day I intend
to settle my doubts in your cleansing augment,
of all that is pure, and all without grime,
from the stubborn North wind,
that freezes bells before chime.