The electric rooster sounds its call as
morning London crawls from depths of slumber.
Blankets are removed, sleepy carcasses
reluctantly shooed towards day ahead.

Gears are ground as bodies are slowly wound,
creeping towards the pay to which they’re bound.
Minds keep pace, edging back to the rat race,
the struggle between survival and grace.

Ablutions are performed as another
day is scorned across the metropolis.
Fuel consumed, flavour of the day exhumed:
More of the same in this urban soul drain.

On to street, pounding the beat, already
sensing heat from the waiting industries.
Dreaming is shelved as reality delves,
mining the spirit from the guys and girls.

Cargo, funnelled in a tube, off to be
enacted where taxes are extracted;
another pack of meat destined for the
toiler’s rack goes rumbling along the track.

Amy Dron