At the Bottom of the Town

The lights around are shining,
And the needles hanging down,
Lament the horrid whining,
At the bottom of the town.

All the facades wept,
And the wonderers kept,
Their glowing torches,
The willows shaded sordid porches.

All the car parks in the morning,
With their sullen concrete eyes,
Grasp the mirror-cotton yawning,
Over various urban skies.

The poets in the malls and lots,
Kept their writings in paintings and pots,
The church, it’s assets held and slept
Whilst the stricken children wept.

The pleasures and the pains,
Were coming home to tea,
Yet sleeping in the churchyard,
They forgot to get to me.
Along the town, brown,
Nothing in the valley,
Whistles air with spikes in needless alley.

The night it warns a-coming,
And the softness all around,
Suddenly turns to madness,
At the bottom of the town.

> The Night Sign