Formal evasion; anonymous pleas;
Ungodly postcards; internet sleaze.
Imprisoned up there, by shackles of lust,
Dissolving in misery, drowning in dust.

The milk tray man hasn't a better disguise;
He's running a safe house for CID spies:
Yet waking at night and walking in black,
He weeps for his losses, his singular lack.

Ignoring the bliss of the crowds down below,
The telly's low whine and the microwave's glow,
He scratches another request for a wife,
And scrawls applications for interest in life.

Here, conversation's the art of escape:
Liberty beckons through windowless drapes.
Singing is howling at wicked full moons
And clutching at legends in merciless tunes.

Years have trudged by. Years will again.
'Til airbags inflate. Since Birmingham train.
The Irish have never quite had it so good.
The Hugenots realise that they never could.