Day-glo tourists and hoary men –
stiff in their dour ashen suits –
not much has changed
beyond Victoria’s cast arches –

still a Queen and commoners
standoff and watch each other
from behind quick net curtains
and wrought iron barriers

as black cabs and red buses
match those travellers’ hopes
of a London of old curiosities –
with a high price tag to boot

Grenadiers play at army games
but all I see is Spike’s Neddy –
unlike Freddy – parading in heat
under a bear weight of headgear

to guard sweet sperm of kings
in their capital residencies –
where penguin-suited servants
respond to royal commands

whilst we all grovel like a Goon
under that ongoing burden
of keeping up appearances
in our less sumptuous palaces

And my return journey home
through ticket-licking turnstiles –
out beyond a thousand kisses –
is to where Sussex wears green
quite well