For most of the people who live in a city,
They’re not in the city at all –
They’re out on the suburbs, a bus-ride away,
In the bland and the ugly and small.
But anyone’s free to enter the city,
Though nothing is free once you’re there –
There’s beauty and splendour for those who can stay,
And a curfew for those who just stare.
For only the richest can live in the city,
The rest are the visiting poor,
Who traipse-in to work there for day-after-day,
And in through the tradesman’s back-door.
They’re cleaning the crap off the streets of the city,
They’re polishing egos and chrome,
And serving up coffee for minimum pay,
Then taking the final bus home.