A Story London Forgot or Ignored

A Story London Forgot Or Ignored…

I see king George of Cambridge. Upon a noble steed.
Stands his guard in Whitehall. To protect that house of greed
Said they’d make things better. Fight the poor mans fight.
And now we find our Tony. Has run of to the right.
The lions guarding Nelson. Slowly drop there heads.
Still the working people. Slumber in there beds.
Sometimes we talk of freedom. As lyrics start to flow.
But even as we talk. I feel my anger grow.
I watch them enter that house. To play their lordly games.
While all around a nation. Will feed upon their fame.
Look and try to find him, But out the backdoor crept.
We lost the promise maker. And promise was not kept.
I don’t believe a wizard. Wicked at his best.
Embraces such an evil. To land upon their nest.
Also see the brush strokes. The artist try’s to clear.
But never quite relaxing. Neil sits as Glynnis peers.
Union’s man was William. Bill Morris better known.
Used their very transport. And found a baron’s throne.
And now he hangs with Benn. Upon a pure white wall.
He’ll never gather dust. Not rolling through this hall.
Now the tired old soldier. The young girl to his left.
Sits still among the paintings. Unaware of their theft.
Quiet between these portraits. The light will find a space.
We’d rather hang a canvas. Than fellow man embrace.
If ballet dancers stepped. So light upon the floor.
And even as they flew. These people would ignore.
Corner turned I find a seat. To rest amid the throng.
With angry fist I beat. But still they see no wrong.
The wasted paint we see here. A normal man affronts.
But try to tell the artist. And all we hear are grunts.
To hang upon this green wall. I wonder if she knew.
That once the drunken artist. Did mix a deadly blue.
Left and right of Richard. The cape has once been holed.
But not by artist’s hand. He’s never been so bold.
I never saw their icons. They said they were so gay.
But surely those so righteous. Will never ask for pay
They let us go amongst them. And never mention price.
They say admission free. To share with us their vice.
A new lady on the podium. Falls upon our gaze.
Coins are thrown to comfort. Trafalger’s sweet malaise.
The other lady’ s green dress. Bright yellow shoes on feet.
Worn to try and impress. But sure the two compete.
I go on to my station. My words a weapon please.
Throw them to a nation. To rise them from their knees.
The pen it falls from my hand. But never makes the ground.
And like the thieves dagger. It cannot have a sound.
Upon Egyptian statues. The blackbird proudly sits.
Native of our country. She lives upon her wits.
At haste the runners on the jog. Quite unsure of their shape.
They try to run against the clock. Not one will break the tape.
Some wear the darkened glasses. Eyes shielded from the sun.
Or maybe it’s to hide a look. Not shared by every one.
I see proud Welsh dragons. Guardians of this road.
And not another fellow. Prepared to share their load.
Afloat we find a café bar. That once sailed on the seas.
The captain he has left the bridge. No longer at his ease.
She sits and eats her lunch. Finding comfort on this wall.
Two sturdy fellows juggle. And hope her hand might fall.
I must put down this pen. And try to rest my thoughts.
For sure I have to keep my best. To help those who have not.
But see a man without a head. Perhaps it disappears.
And though we cannot see. I’m sure he sheds real tears.
To know we carry lightly. This weight upon our backs.
But people above come nightly. Adding to our sacks.
I will see this lovely lady. As I stop and feast a while.
Later to pass old London’s prison. Thinking it was vile.
They step inside the restaurant. Hunger must be fed.
Thirst is quenched with cheap wine. Soon leave with lighter head.
Poor dog it’s coat is to thick. For climate such as ours.
He gazes warmly at the clouds, And hopes for summers showers.
A workman steps on to the road. His level surely used.
To hold this city to account. Bubble burst and sorely bruised.
For now the time to travel home. I run to jubilee.
And I can only hope. This line is straight for me.
We step into the carriage. And move down to the rear.
Poor lady speaks of marriage. Her voice pregnant with fear
Surely such as she or I are trapped. No song for us on vinyl.
Travelling to our station once. Knowing that now, it’s final…..