a fatberg in the sewer,
And there’s petrol in the air,
There’s a mother in a tower block
Who’s too stoned to care.
There is vomit on the pavement;
There are rats beneath the floor;
There’s a rage for jihad boiling
In the boy next door.
The moneylenders flourish;
There are creeps in the police.
Some parents train their children
To be morbidly obese.
In front of brash and trashy shops
Young beggars whine and wheedle.
That ash-faced girl has anguished eyes
And no friend but a needle.
There’s a cockroach in the cornflakes;
There are drunkards on the streets;
There’s a vicar spends his morning
Writing homophobic tweets.
There’s explosive in a rucksack;
There’s a dogma that corrodes.
Yes, this could be the morning
When the boy next door explodes.