You’ll know when you get there, the vowels go flat;
and people respond ‘Ah know nowt abaht that’.
They speak as they find and don’t find much to like.
The rain’s in your face and you’re blown off your bike.
It gets darker earlier, the cloud’s always grey
and the food is all fried – and in lard, so they say.
The Angel (the North one) can’t manage to fly.
You watch it for hours. No lift-off, that’s why.
The South’s got no Angel; instead, there’s the pole
that’s spoiled Brighton’s sea-front and sucked out its soul.
There’re too many cars: on a Bank Holiday
they’re bumper to bumper on hell’s motorway.
A house costs a fortune, the trains are on strike;
from London to Brighton it’s quicker to hike.
There’s not much between them; you might find it best
if life gives you choices to head for the West.
