Though far outside the radius you roam,
Where shall a fairer prospect meet the eyes?
Brand new, like Aphrodite from the foam
The homes of Brixton Rise.
Supreme am I, Suburbia’s guiding star,
And when I speak, let lesser tongues be dumb;
The prefix “Upper” shows the class we are;
Where Tooting beckons, Come!
Upon your North West Passage scale my heights,
And mark the joyous crowds that sport beneath;
Men call me “Happy”: O the strange delights,
The dalliance on my Heath!
A peaceful calm envelopes every street,
And like an old world idyl, life drift by
Where else such courtly couples will you meet
A-comin’ through the Rye.
Under my yoke my stalwarts meekly bend:
Daily, between the hours of 8 and 9.
To dare worse horrors than the Pit I send
Sons of the Chatham line.
“Last, loveliest, exquisite”, I give to those
Civilian warriors from India rest;
What suburb boasts the dignified repose
That clings to Ealing, W.