Smogging

As an addendum to the previous blog post about the joys of cold and wet and grey, I offer the following poem, in which romantic poet William Turdsworth, personified for some reason as a cloud of smog, goes somewhere, sees something, and comes to the grand conclusion of I'm not sure. 

I wandered lonely as a smog

I wandered lonely as a smog
That floats on high o’er city streets
And came across a rancid bog
Behind a wall of grey concrete,
A dirty cankered swamp of spew,
Of toxic waste and foetid muck;
And bubbles from the putrid brew
Burst with a stench as rank as fuck.

But through the sickly slough of cess
Moss-matted ferals waded out
And – “Save our Bog!” “Say YES to MESS!”
The crowd would somehow vomit-shout.
“It’s dirty, but it’s all we’ve got!”
One hacked (and coughed a gob of drool);
Another wheezed midst gales of snot
“Once all this land was palsied pool.”

And oft, when in pensive mood I lie,
I call to mind that sewer pit,
And thinking of that swamp, I sigh -
“But geeze that fucking bog was shit!”