Blue billboard on the roof next door

Makes a square of light on the kitchen floor

Smokes rises from a cigarette

There's a dull glisten where the table's wet

Soft breath rises from the bed

A thousand question marks over my head



Turn on the tube but there's nothing new

The usual panic in red, white and blue

"Military advisors" marching in the square

Knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air

Private armies on suburban lawns

Shoulders braced against the tidal dawn

All's quiet on the inner city front

I don't know why I should but I feel content



Bell in the fire station tower

Rings out the measure of the racing hours

I slip through the door to the roof outside

To gaze at the sign hanging in the sky

That sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed

Doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget

All's quiet on the inner city front.