The street is bathed in winter sunset pink,
The air is redolent of kitchen sink,
Between the dog-mess heaps I pick my way
To watch the dying embers of the day
Glow over Chelsea, crimson load on load
All Brangwynesque across the long King's Road.
Deep in myself I feel a sense of doom,
Fearful of death I trudge towards the tomb.
The earth beneath my feet is hardly soil,
But outstretched chicken-netting coil on coil
Cover cables, sewage pipes and wires
While underneath burn hell's eternal fires.
Snap! crackle! pop! The kiddiz know the sound
And Satan strokes his furnace underground.