The fetor of mushy peas loiters,
o’er the fervid, fated street; where
children chalk the hopscotch courts, that
they will frisk with their feet.
A bloody brick uniform prevails, despite
the Curzon-Howe’s tawny finish
and pompon perennials. The faux
leaded windows cannot vanquish
the bargain banality of
Boswell Street and its lookalikes.
The queen squeals “No Ball Games”
from de jigger, like an auld fishwife.
Venetian blinds are worn as armour
to lock out the Ugg
boot/pyjama infantry who screech
“Gizza bifter, ya mug”
The forecast future remains contrite
and perpetual like the
chains and chains and chains
of paltry boxes with chimneystacks.