by Eddie Aderne

“All of London’s seedy poetry is there to see in the setting for TV thriller”
—The Guardian

Ah, London’s seedy poetry! Relayed for all to see!
Its origin’s no younger than the fourteenth century:
Recall the Reeve’s and Miller’s Tales, and other fabliaux,
Now findable on Google, if you’re sure you want to know.
Remember Swift’s foul “Shower,” with the offal-oozing ditches,
The Beggar’s Opera songs assigned to robbers, pimps, and snitches,
And, later, Blake’s young harlot, and De Quincy’s dens (O curse!—
I’ve only just remembered that he didn’t write in verse).
Time passed, and brought The Waste Land’s shady Stetson, summoned wryly
Through urban murk (though, oddly, it appears he fought at Mylae);
Then “London Roses,” Willa Cather’s dyslogy, which shows
The city is a cesspit that can even spoil a rose.
This crustiness seems one of those interminable vogues:
Think Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd and all that squalor from the Pogues;
From Chaucer to last Tuesday, London seethes with poetry!
Go look it up. I’m busy disinfecting my TV.