The moon has lost its way,
Meandering home,
Like the drunkard it is.
Meandering home,
Like the drunkard it is.
Pale outlaws wait
By Camden tube.
At bay in restless pubs,
Prophets ignore the hour.
By Camden tube.
At bay in restless pubs,
Prophets ignore the hour.
On Camden Road, you can hear
Old men in bedsits
Berating the night.
Old men in bedsits
Berating the night.
The canal, which their ancestors dug,
Glints oddly, as if it understood:
Despair is the city’s fate,
Glints oddly, as if it understood:
Despair is the city’s fate,
Its heart of clay,
Beating back generations.
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