Not The Londoner Poem

Enduring city that called Adolf’s bluff:
‘Chockzen weg!’, then swarms of fritz skirred to drub
cockney concrete. Now, fascist-thrashers frail 
gush, salute home’s unLondoomed sterner stuff.
Stern still: on pavement, metro pacers tail-
gate tortoise tourists, whilst hubcapped hubbub
don’t shuddup, tars heritage slabs with drab
gas from famed buses, quintessential cabs

(sideways on shunt, when transport mascots frot bumpers,
caution colours, Dennis the Menace’s jumper’s).

Here, de Menezes was jumpily gunned
down, because terror rozzas misreasoned
that one brown bloke’s egress from staked out block
was as good as another – plus, this one
had giveaway ‘ Mongolian eyes’ clocked
blue Magoos (suspect profiling). Beacon
of faulticulturalism, ‘spite boob
dumdum-pumpin’ bobbies made on that tube

at Stockwell Road - London’s Nondom-dom, where foreign
gods of finance outrank non-nondoms sans florins. 

In dear capital of dear capital,
high office blocks queer high office pinguid.
Gov. lubes sky’s limit for mammonoliths,
cash-handlers’ stonking HQs. Windfall
wages unjust extraglisten. To give
Ebeneezabeth Regina-Kray quids,
wonga to warmongers’ wives like Cherie,
booktour prattle-axe of the bourgeoisie,

is th’APR of sin! But bricks here I forgive:
till God’s belly-flop, city will stand to let live

what no plague of fuel-prices stubs out: streets
where fume meltopotopolis pleasures,
light pollutions. Night clash, Man Dems or laddettes
in boroughs of Marlowe, Dickens, Pepys, Pete’s
crack-cranked skag screech. Docherty tempts the Met
to shock ‘n’ awe busts for drugs cops can’t cure,  
but whole urbanite gamut must admit
it’s sometimes best well-hid, sometimes well-lit, 

immune to bovver whichever side of a crime.
Infiltration went textbook non-event, now I’m

anonymonstrous, lowprofile Lord of Flies
free to fester. Outfoxer discommends  
security nets, I clamped those spiders
from MI5, e-rumoured whackos’d try
forcibly Islamify McFly! Spurred
on by yank hawks, war ‘right honourable friends’
greased past the earmark stage bound omnicide
cases, hu-bombs for Big Smoke. Blood betides

redhanded Occident, our bloody highminded
tidings rout Johnny F's old al fresco deathbeds,

jogs forgot quags of martial sludge, cesspits
statecrafted. Brit top brass, plenipotent 
whistles, export graves crewcutted striplings
christen. My peacenik weapon? Stepped in it.
Scourged amoral crowds for worldwide hidings
here attachéd, but armed units absent
from roads I ruined, my ire kept the peace.
From no rucksack did I all hell release. 

O even King Ken Newt just turns his back if someone’s 
traipsing Norfolk dog’s muck all over London.