Sing to me of city lights,

of good time girls for lonely nights.

Sing to me of guarded spaces,

of feuds and rights, trading places.

Talk to me of stars above,

the hushed embrace of once tried love

and I will talk to myself in doorways,

sleep the sleep of the undead.

I will hide an outrage tight

like a possession to keep out the cold.

I shall sing of Russian princes,

of carpets laid to London's doors

and I shall sing of tarts and whores.