| There’s
a fatberg in the sewer, And there’s petrol in the air, There’s a mother in a tower block Who’s too stoned to care. There is vomit on the pavement; There are rats beneath the floor; There’s a rage for jihad boiling In the boy next door. The moneylenders flourish; There are creeps in the police. Some parents train their children To be morbidly obese. In front of brash and trashy shops Young beggars whine and wheedle. That ash-faced girl has anguished eyes And no friend but a needle. There’s a cockroach in the cornflakes; There are drunkards on the streets; There’s a vicar spends his morning Writing homophobic tweets. There’s explosive in a rucksack; There’s a dogma that corrodes. Yes, this could be the morning When the boy next door explodes. |