Delta40
08-20-2011, 09:47 PM
The jaws of after-life digest car shells
contorted like dripping hot toffee apples.
Rioting flames of violence
swallow up anarchist crowds
trapped at the turnstile of reason.
Cry babies the lot of 'em! spits a pensioner
as the horrors of yesteryear revisit his heart.
In the grey, foggy mist of now,
All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor
Vera Lynn is blitzed out on pills
she earned from alleyway handjobs.
Amidst strips and bits of smoking steel,
garbage and hope is once again
poured down forget-me-not tunnels.
Those makeshift shelters bury the shame of
The men and women of our far flung empire...
Melted plastic soldiers from bygone battles,
solidify into wart-like lumps on our scalps
for us to scratch as we pass the needy.
Flowers are strewn across the entrance
of a wartime dance hall, looted by chavs
sporting stolen clothes and hopeless futures.
Bless em All! sings the Mayor.
A bollocking won't drive souls over the edge,
yet the innocent tumble down the escalator
and smash against the charred walls of the underground.
There in the dark, they join distant ghosts
like old advertisements in the murky trenches,
wailing the social truths of London.
contorted like dripping hot toffee apples.
Rioting flames of violence
swallow up anarchist crowds
trapped at the turnstile of reason.
Cry babies the lot of 'em! spits a pensioner
as the horrors of yesteryear revisit his heart.
In the grey, foggy mist of now,
All the Nice Girls Love a Sailor
Vera Lynn is blitzed out on pills
she earned from alleyway handjobs.
Amidst strips and bits of smoking steel,
garbage and hope is once again
poured down forget-me-not tunnels.
Those makeshift shelters bury the shame of
The men and women of our far flung empire...
Melted plastic soldiers from bygone battles,
solidify into wart-like lumps on our scalps
for us to scratch as we pass the needy.
Flowers are strewn across the entrance
of a wartime dance hall, looted by chavs
sporting stolen clothes and hopeless futures.
Bless em All! sings the Mayor.
A bollocking won't drive souls over the edge,
yet the innocent tumble down the escalator
and smash against the charred walls of the underground.
There in the dark, they join distant ghosts
like old advertisements in the murky trenches,
wailing the social truths of London.