I see no collection of pot-bellied erections
down migraine way
Salt hits the wounds and the money birds zoom
to free those entombed in decay.
They wonder in fear as the bank notes appear
from pockets by squirting lead
While water-filled tubes fill up on the move
hang down from some Whitechapel bed.
The mothering poor who head for the door
hit the pauper's grave.
With sustained pain and a limp in the brain
they make for the streets half crazed.
With X-Rays which fade with the light of the day
the Mormon men move on
While back down in the dark, while surgery starts
some folks treat themselves to a song.
Jack the Ripper holds memories close
In both parts of the town.
Shop soiled uniforms march in front
with guests from a hidden asylum
But heated needles hit the skin, in the North
its what people say
Won't find a cotton cloth round there
and angels keep away.
With Frankenstein on the end of a knife
working his way with love
Compared with what their getting, maybe a message from above?
And you know the bill which comes in pink
is crushed into your palm
While the hasty Harley Street merchants
are wrestling with your arm.
The rich man shoots the crazy red juice
straight into your arm
And one man bites into the jaws of the night
But they make sure he comes to no harm
Red roses grow in window boxes
The surgeon hides his guns
Free from the care of expenditure worries
The criminal who never runs.