Down Street

Dear friend you've come at last I wish to impart to you something of a deeply personal nature Dare we venture off the map And indeed between the cracks To a private road of sorts I presume you have a strong will And the stomach to match the underbelly of our fair city You'll need this firm crowbar Whilst I implore you to utilise no sense of smell And to think people live down there A rush of chill air heralds our clattering necropolis railway Like a Transylvanian express plunging into rivers of fungi algae and eels Ten million rats, one for each one of us And to think people live down there A race of wild hogs inhabit the sewers of Hampstead A cesspool suburb superb supreme Catacombs of Kensal Green I know you'd like to slime away Like those walled up under Whitechapel But I've my own kind of Jubilee line out of sight and out of mind And to think you'll have to live down there Strangled streams, smothered rivers, London always gives me the shivers Forty abandoned stations and Churchill's last bolthole Impregnable as Hitler's bunker Can't you see them dancing on the platform at Down Street