There is a reason why people go to Paris, not London, for love,
But try to tell me anything.
I arrived at Gatwick on a Sunday,
Innocent as a cardboard suitcase,
But a week of drizzle and English reserve would make anyone want to slip down a side street and change their name.
If your Love hands you your skin and asks you to kindly fuck off,
You can always disappear on the Underground--
Blue line Piccadilly, Victoria line north--
But finding your way can be tricky,
It's crowded and busy, no place for a yokel;
You can end up with more time than purpose, dragging the best of you behind in the damp corridors like some eviscerated doll,
Far from home
And the only thing to do, though you've hardly the heart for it,
Is to get off the train and let yourself be swept toward the exit by a sea of souls who are all better looking than you and not bleeding.
Get up. Get out.
Sorry, you're not allowed to die here.
Thank you for visiting London, and remember,
Mind the gap.