Wandering

Wandering

Lonely as a cloud

Is a thing of the past

In Grasmere

The entire stinking town

Is a bun fight

And old Will Wordsworth

Would say the same thing

If he was here today

If he struggled for a parking spot

If he'd had to pay

Three pounds twenty pence

For a hot chocolate

"Dog eat dog," he'd say,

"Eyeball to eyeball.

Every man for himself."

Watching gangs of city traders

On their long weekends

Scrapping for seats in a cafe

Wearing North Face jackets

And extremely clean boots.