Tucked away, with appalling views,
Such as those as one might find expressed on the internet
By the kind of troll who still lives with his mother,
In her basement. Down a long bleak road,
Such as one might see on the news,
As the scene of a frenzied murder.
Converted to a dreadfully low standard,
So previously, where there was a perfectly serviceable byre,
There is now only a dingy hovel,
Black with soot and grey with drizzle,
No garden, nothing planted here has ever grown,
And nowhere to play,
Only thick mire
Such as sticks, when thrown.
£950 K.
