On a heath overlooking great London,
On a morning when mist isn’t seen,
There’s a glow from the bowl of its cauldron
Like the city as it’s never been.
With the gleam of a freshly set diamond,
And the smile of a necklace of gold,
And amidst all the sparks of its eye line
Are the aspects of other gem stones:
There’s the emerald pins of trees waving,
And the sapphire spires of steel;
A burnish of ruby engravings
And a whisper of crystal revealed.
Though below this hard palette of riches
Are the causes of all its effects,
From the stiff upper lip that is twitching
To the slack jaw reporting its text;
For the fields are being squeezed of their treasure,
And the buildings are founded on greed,
And there’s blood on the ground when our leisure
Dares to take us away from t.v.
So the sight of the crown is deceiving,
As the fog is beginning to roll,
And before long because of the weaving
It will carry the lustre of coal.