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Island east of the mainland,
A big gun with modesty and heart
The 18th century was nameless and suburban,
Occupied paupers ground,
Square sidewalks torn down,
Sleepers,
One at least,
Had a sunny part of ground,
April light rests on the potter’s field,
There,
100,000 souls nameless,
Forgotten,
Bleak,
And cheerless.
North of this forgotten place,
Dope attics and drunks,
Is home of this,
Dark,
Damp,
And foul station,
The moon stands bright and big,
As like its sister,
The sun,
Only shining light for these depressed men,
The lilogroves and bright flowers are gone,
But,
By the burial ground is one green bold tree,
Decaying bodies surrounding it left out improper burial,
Living souls don’t come upon this place for its foul and unimaginable smell,
Storms of legends help the decay.