They line the streets of Bristol,
Forgotten phantoms of crystal,
This for them is not a symbol, it is reality.
The red sun and yellow sky judged us in October.
The earth carried on, I don’t know why we couldn’t choose sober.
The winter kills, their fingers peel,
And we unwrap our presents.
If we spare a penny, it’ll make us feel like we have loved a peasant.
‘What an array of choice!’ we say, ‘Chicken, turkey or pheasant?’
‘in the bleak mid-winter’ they say, ‘my existence is effervescent’.