In Autumn shades of tope and brown,
Thrashed moleskin over balding cords,
He cycles through the waking town,
Past Kilburn, St John’s Wood and Lords.
Then left, round London Zoo he spins,
Where antelope and zebra flaunt
Their gaudy stripes and spotted skins:
His drabness their bright gewgaws taunt.
Then Camden shows its claggy arse,
King’s Cross now glitzy, cleansed and shrill;
The whores and drunks replaced by bars.
And here, St Pancras, tacky still.
Our hero and his bicycle
At last the BL gates let in,
To sit and scratch and dream and mull
And mope and hope and then … begin.