Reflecting upon spring,
One murky evening,
Where dull Victorian terrace
Follows dull Victorian terrace,
And tedious modern estates,
Amid bleak industrial wastes,
Walking wearily through 'em
In the London borough of Newham.
Mile upon mile of human habitation
In the general vicinty of West Ham station,
Like human intestines packed together,
With scent of sewage and clammy weather.
Daffodil and springtime cheer
Are not encountered here.
London's pleasant qualities
Are here not felt,
Anymore than springtime freshnesses
Are likely to be smelt.
And as for the charm of England.
There is so little about.
Here one feels the old world
Has more or less run out.

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