Each neighbourhood ensnared, they watch it writhe,
The bureaucrats, the takers of the tithe.
They’ve almost all completely lost the plot
and make you think of Mao and of Pol Pot.
Midwits who speak of Derrida and Marx
But can’t empty the dustbins in the parks.
Broadmead is dying, Bath is under siege,
Hastes the good citizen and vassal liege
Unto the armpit of the motorways:
Cribbs Causeway! ‘Tis to thee I hymn my praise.
Thy tarmac mother’s apron draws them in
To three-piece suites, organic mandarins,
Beach towels and gowns and Fairtrade fruit,
The faint redolence of a Nevil Shute.
To lounge beneath thy vaults of glass and steel
And feel the frenzy cool down and congeal
To sip like Keats the cappuccino’s froth
And plight unto thy honour honest troth.
To thee the herd of normal people flocks
To buy their chinos and their argyle socks,
Without being woked at by some blue-haired git
With special pronouns and that gender shit.
Nor twixt John Lewis’s and M&S
Do drinkers cause the gentlefolk distress,
And all is genteel, orderly and clean
Of exhibitionists in neoprene.
