sitting close to you on a bus into town
holding your hand when we cross the street
I steal a kiss by the underground market

in a city that shouted of revolution
stickmen, soccer and Boddingtons ale
rundown its glory long faded

you told me that Marx was misunderstood
I said perhaps but what would Engels
(or any german) have made

of love blossoming in a northern summer
and the train ride home

[1997, 2025]