London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…

So many of us have

Noone but the people

We love. And everyone

Else, they, they are not

Loved. Loved ones are

Warm. Everyone Else is

Out there, there in the

Night, every day, night

In, night out, night

Owls without feathers

To flap over their empty

Guts as they spew spit

And cough phlegm into the 

Ruts on their palms

Long lines cutting round

Their thumbs, cut off 

Too soon, so the tealeaves

Would say, if they had

Tea, hot water and a cup and

 A spoon full of sugar to

Sweeten them into something

Warmer than blood