From his high office
An ace trader named Al
Looked at the wet junction
Where the paradise house one stood
These were his asphalt memories.

In his neon cabin
A security guard named Chris
Checked the lottery results
He never bought a ticket
But knew all his numbers
He liked the pain.

In the tangled tunnels
A train driver named Tim
Wrote poems to the White City called
The Sanctuaries of Ruislip and the Promises Beyond
He liked the poetry of the underground.