Thread: Song for London

The roads are full of potholes, and the streets are full of trash.
The pavements lying with youngsters asking, "can you spare some cash?"
The tubes are packed to bursting, and the busses always late.
If you want to get to town by noon, you'd better leave at eight.
But when the sun is shining and the river glints like gold,
and the bridges curve like arrows and the city takes its hold,
and I'm glad to be in London, though I really can't explain.
And London's where I live despite the fumes, the dirt and rain.
The lorries hurtle pass me as I cycle to my work.
If I come home after nightfall, I'm afraid of who might lurk.
You hardly know your neighbours after twenty years or more,
and use a little spyhole if someone's at the door.
But when I'm sitting waiting for the concert to begin,
or a play by some young writer, makes me think that we might win.
Then I'm glad to be in London, though it's hard to tell you why.
And London is the city where I'll live until I die.
The dogs mess up the pavement, the kids don't use the park,
the traffic recks the daytime, alarms disturb the dark,
the rubbish chokes the gutters, pollution fills the air,
old folks have trouble breathing and no one seems to care.
But when I stroll at weekends through Brit Lane or Camden Town,
I realise that though there is plenty here to get me down,
I agree with Dr. Johnson, though I can't speak for my wife,
that a man who's tired of London is a man who's tired of life.

Thanks so much!