This is our blitz, puppydog, I said,
dragging him away from the whizzbangs 
echoing green and purple off shopfronts.

My Chuchundra scuttled ground-bellied
from fallen ******* bags spilling guts 
like casualties of war

and hoodlums tremendous in commando gear
who set off peonies and chrysanthemums 
before charging triumphant down alleyways.

We go home.&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m happy to leave these heroes
the soda from the Catherine wheels,
and the drizzle, for which London has yet to apologise.