London’s a cat that looks at her queen,
its Cheshire grin greeting everything seen
in a city that boasts of Buckingham Palace,
as well as the hole that swallowed Alice.
Euphonious, ancient, and mostly foggy,
garish, gothic and ofttimes groggy,
Piccadilly’s its circus and Covent its Garden,
amid politic murmurs of, “Beg y’pardon,”
providing foreigners time to reflect
on the wisdom of sparring with God’s elect.
Its citified cat of pomp, and power
dwells in hearts that speak of the Tower,
Westminster, Big Ben, and Threadneedle Street,
and Marley’s ghost with chains on its feet.
Plus blokes whose Cockney is pure and ripe
as the Turkish tobacco in Sherlock’s pipe,
but ease the combat between social classes,
and signal health in the death of asses.
Its stones in Fleet Street do not forget
the weight of the Chesterton silhouette,
and the centuried shadows never part
with a single child of Dickensian art.
London’s a marvel, albeit a cat
who is England’s lion beneath his top hat,
and a queen to whose crown the English bow
as proof of London’s existence now.
And a Muse, to whom London grins as a cat,
knowing Brahman has room enough for that.
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