Stoke-on-Trent

Thinking about how the light above,
Must hate the sight of my face,
Glum and broken, my eyes sore,
My toungues insomniac taste,
Replaced my lively soul,
That was never scared or shaved,
My mind sored was never bored,
And was rarely well behaved,
I flame as I cannot fight back,
I lose track of time and of date,
I rip toward my night time,
My God fears for fate.

Bring me back to me,
Give me back you tyrant bastards,
You faceless travesty of humanity,
Give me backwards.