As the sun stabs the fog,
The light in London begins to date.
To date the ground is surely a shock,
Beauty in London can be a debate.
For most of the time Londoners walk
As if the trains have forwarded the clock.
No matter the place there is always the grief
Of that young cyclist that saw life is brief.
Following now some English laws,
I have to stop just mentioning flaws.
In here there is no need of a shower,
The British skies work twenty-four hours.
People are crawling to their nine to five,
Bumping and ‘sorrying’ without looking up,
The only good habit that seems to survive,
Are the old cigarettes that cheer pubs up.