On the condom-strewn streets in the sweltering heat, an old horse and a donkey
Look confused.
The scaffolding on the terraces opposite the brothel are looking a bit wonky
And the tramps are sick of being abused
By natty Italian men in grey suits on their Vespas, singing snatches
From Aida and picking their noses.
The ugly egg of frustration hatches
In this squalor so far from peace and roses.
In the city there is only pain;
This is urban – not, my dear, urbane.
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