Outpouring Of My Melencholy Hors D'Oeuvre

This is always the worst part. As you pass the park, the street dissolves into little more than an alley. It's here I was born, here between the clothes-lines and the chipped brickwork of some long-forgotten Minister For Housing. "Let's abolish the slums," and everyone agreed because it had to be done, no-brainer. But this ain't no concrete paradise, is it, Mr. Tory? It's a trackmark on the arm of the town, the stab wound in the gut of this body. Broken glass battles with broken teeth to pave the street, the council saved on paint by using human blood.