OLD GOOLE.

At the back of the bus
That’s us;
In the bilge of the liner
You’ll find us,

Where the soybean stink
Is the thing,
And the option of shops
Has been dropped.

Where broadband was last
To be cast
Over two docks and a river
To wither,

And those factories standing
Still manned
Are thumbed to be tumbled
And shed,

And the fuckers that put us here
Whistle,
Like the shipyard’s old siren once
Whistled.