Moderne

 

I don’t see why they should be praised,

they’re only bricks and mortar

time from Time has not erased;

it gives them every quarter

to loom above us in the streets,

lumber that’s made over;

we’re taken in by present neats.

Ha! Clutter over clover!

There was a time when caves were fine,

huts stood a storey high,

but now that story’s out of line;

we’re left to heft a sigh

at plumbed-down depths of Gherkin, Shard

and tower, those emblems full

of bankers’ ants who’re toiling hard

for plonk and pumped-up pull.

It’s they who’d have these buildings stand

as firm as man’s desire;

the sane would sooner, torch in hand,

set the lot on fire.