They called it ‘that’ street
When no sign could be found
Just this old grumpy house
Shiny tower blocks surround.
Its front door is blue
and when you go through
there’s many more doors
and a few extra floors.
But there’s not such a view
from the windows you’ll see
Just skyscraper shadows
Over That 333.
Alas no one lives here,
not for many a year.
Home Sweet Home just a ghost,
escaping up the old brick chimney.
Or was it only ever Dickensian and workhouse with a bright coloured door
like lipstick on a pig from guinea.
The curious thing about this house
with a blue door
is it was once all alone,
and nothing more.
Then a steel town surround
was raised from the ground,
a capitalist haven all shiny and clean shaven.
You know the sight,
skyscrapers in flight
all polished with sunshine,
glass reflecting the light.
With all their might, with all their might.
Ping ponging the light,
out of the blue doors sight.
So the grumpy old house in the shadow it stays.
Alone on the cobbles, anonymity it craves.
Lets the tower blocks blaze,
and summon the rays.
And out of their gaze,
of the blue door sprays
never-ending secret ballets.
Here’s the sting,
and its quite a thing
They just built and built and built
And one would assume,
in amidst their boom
That Grumpy House would always have room
It was never a conversation, never a doubt
The tiny blue door had a secret big clout?
Do you ever watch one of those low budget soap opera serials on free TV, set in a small village, an unnecessary local café, which only has two customers a day?
Mainly they sit for hours with the same pennies worth of coffee.
And yet, the café owner, goes home at night to the biggest house in the land and walks past their pool each night thanking the pool cleaner for their service.
Yet the income from the village café could never amount to enough pennies to buy the pool cleaner a net let alone the extravagance of owning a castle.
How do they do it?
They never explain, it never makes sense, is it even relevant?
It’s just how it works. It’s a secret, and blue doors keep that secret best.
You know when a city
is polished and new
skyscrapers and towers
blocking the view?
Yet down on the cobbles
as stubborn can be
an old rickety gold mine
the towns only history?
It’s not a palace
the owner is frugal
wealth is curious
to eccentric Mr Bugle.
Question marks crowd,
and query the street
why, what and who’s
is the cobble stone beat
because people walk in,
and people bounce out
all moulds of humans
all frowns and pouts.
And.. you have to ask
what are Bugles intentions’
with capitalist towers
breaking all their conventions?
Because down on the cobbles
the blue doors attentions
are noticed by all
with their whispering mentions.
What must Mr Bugle have known
For the elite to leave him alone?