Target: London

in the city that's afraid to sleep,
we used to run, but now we creep.
when darkness falls, we're scared to breathe.
the number on my record sleeve

behind the scenes, though well-behaved
my world short-wave.
left, left, right, brick wall and rest, depressed.
I'm charismatic, self-confessed.

you're nice in a kind of tacky depressing way.
for emotional-fatigue, you're good for short stay.
like yesterday's dailies, tired and obsolete.
relief of the comic kind, generic 4/4 beat.

lip-service to the ranks of talent-less fame.
like white paint on the wall, you reflect but never gain.
whilst starving on the words you wish you never said:
lock, engage, london targeted.

a fool in the box, over the river
kidneys, heart, intestines, liver.
eat me whole or not at all
in the shadow of St Paul.

carbon copy uniform
no-one fits, but all conform

in the city that's afraid to sleep, we used to run, but now we creep.