(Ballade of An Urban Legend)
From Edgware Road to Tower Hill
To Edgware Road the trains go round;
The light is stale, the air is shrill,
All brain activity is drowned;
Yet, through it all, you sense a sound,
Melodious, a crystal shine,
So close, its source should soon be found:
The Party on the Circle Line!
Hot charcoal wafts through every grille.
The red-eyed engines screech and pound.
The chances of a seat are nil.
You feel like string too tightly wound;
Meanwhile, so near, black-tied, swish-gowned,
Bright belles and gallants dance or dine,
Saluting, as champagne is downed,
The Party on the Circle Line.
The journey is a test of will.
You’re like an ant inside a mound –
A mound which shrieks and won’t be still.
You’d think the nether gods have frowned;
But there, just out of sight, renowned
And yet obscure, perhaps divine,
One hope redeems the Underground:
The Party on the Circle Line.
Envoi
Prince, I would love to see you crowned;
Alas, I’m driven to decline,
For this, tonight, is where I’m bound:
The Party on the Circle Line.