Right then, Nobility.

Some time has passed

Since the witching hour began.

And having watched a drama

Of men and empire,

Where Union Jack rode forth,

Pensively I sit

Thinking is his language,

And drinking his scotch.

High in my house, sixteen floors

Keep me from the ground,

I lean out of my window

And look.

To the right,

The dunes of Arabia abound,

The desert that passively saw

The inception of man.

Man who'd tread her sands

And spread to all the earth,

Taking from her fingers

All that she would give, and more.

A loan never recognised

Yet disdained with interest,

Her payment instead

Is spit in her face.

To the left,

Piles of mortar and steel stretch.

Those towers that house

The teeming masses,

That throb and thrive to get

Entry into exclusive comfort,

That now slumber to begin again

that pointless scrabbling,

Perhaps forgetting something

In their dash for success.

For the din of baying hounds

Drowns our ears, and sense

Fails to pierce patented helmets.

In our patented leather jackets

Wearing patented felt boots,

As we hunt that wily fox

Who looks back, all the while

With a wide grin.

But when I turn

Mine eyes below,

Life looks back at me.

Amidst a sea of cars

Parked neatly like bricks,

A lone figure works.

A wet cloth swabs

Testaments to edifice,

For that is what they are,

Removing the grime

From the desert's sands,

Off shiny chrome shells.

Tiring now, he finishes one,

Pushes his cart to the next,

This one's run-down

Old and battered,

But still that man

Took no pause.

With none to oversee,

He cleans that beat up car

That is somebody else's,

And moves to the next.

Should I have looked up,

Away, I would see the floors

Above me, and naught else.

For the night-time halo

Of our civilized world,

Shields our view

Of the sympathetic stars.

*----------------------------*