Dreamy London flat? Nay, dreams of flight away away,Back to the comfort of home’s steady wave.O woeful stay, where promised ease did flee,And yearning for return took hold of me.Upon the tables, dust in layers spread,Thick as the fog o’er London’s streets is said.Dust balls in clumps adorned the floor’s domain,A welcome made bleak, where charm could scarce remain.A blind hung broken, forlorn, in despair,Another stretched, immovable, laid bare.The front interior window, gaping, its pane long gone,Admitted chill and clamor all night long.The street, though near to train and bus to meet,Showed horrors vile—foul sights of human feces near the street. We raised our plight to the host: the blinds, the window’s pane,The blood-stained pillow—each concern made plain.Assurances came swift, with hollow tone,Yet action lingered, absent, never shown.’Tis not a hovel, yet nor a princely keep,Its photographs, illusions meant to trick.And for six eighty-five per night in pounds,Such ruin’s weight no justification sounds.Let others, warned, this fate of mine eschew,And seek a haven where dreams might come true.
