Parody of London by William Blake
It stalks, festering in its streets,
Water boils, through gutters flow,
It marks those we will all soon meet,
Struck in weakness, men of woe.
The resonance, the cry of man,
A child’s laughter laced in fear,
Vocal stains of past, through each ban,
Cognition of the mass I hear.
The toiled ground echoes their cries,
The cross on my forehead appalls,
The mass ignores their lowly sighs,
A vein rooting up house walls.
In the witching hour I hear
A beast and a harlot’s faint curse
To bring my infant eye a tear
So all may come to the mass hearse.