Lady London

What trace of shadow, of language long and distempered in memorial elegy, of abbeys as dismembered dolls lifted from their wrappings, of hallowed grounds embedded with upturned forks while cigarette embers chuckle soon sound aslumber in the crooks of pews, of fallow convictions interred between dour stones of the Thames, retracted like a lover's kiss, of security in flightless ebon wings while its mercurial eye peeps on Marriott's old ladies for 30 quid, of refuse systems as landmarks to history, dear old old Form(al) city. no cat no cradle in its strings of moving metal carriages in the heavens and hell, Shakespeare Shakespeare! What a play you've made of her, our fair Lady London