What is this city but empty space

Folded and stacked in raucous shapes

Bodies burning with oily vigour

And chatter chasing our, tweaking ears

What is this city but air passing through

Sucked and spat from house to fume

Passion asunder’d cast anew

And sparks and bitter on winter dew

Why is this city a live-ing space

Gorging itself on untold plates

Little lollops of heavy lives

And quivering we have, a clattering hive.