There are too many people in this town,
Someone ought to cut them down,
They fill the pavements, crowd the bars,
Clutter up the roads with cars.
Bodies queued at every till,
Samantha, Wayne and Little Bill,
Pushchairs packed with squalling brats,
Raining down like dogs and cats.
Double-decker bloomin’ folk,
Humanity, God’s little joke,
Steaming, teeming, over-flowing,
Bustling, jostling, coming, going.
In the mall and in the market,
Trundling over polished parquet,
Trolleys zigging, baskets zagging,
Happy shoppers, talking, bragging.
Talking of their glory days,
When the town had quiet ways,
Filling buses, filling prams,
Laden baskets, laden prams.
Oh for a feudal city clearance,
To grant to me no interference.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved