Hull or Hell

Of larks trains windows and brooks

The poet he writes it all down in his book

Won't meet your eye but he wants you to look

In Hull or hell he lies

Lambs in the winter and swans in the spring

Children at play they're like birds on the wing

And the poet he writes that the sun seems to swing

In Hull or hell he lies

Away from the world and away from the page

Hidden in corners the gathering of age

Retreats to the wings where he once held the stage

In Hull or hell he lies

The dirt and the filth that we don't get to see

That's eating his language away

This yellow-eyed nastiness hides from the light of the day

Resenting the everyday growing so old

Where winter once pictured as flowers in fold

Turned frosty and bitter and weathered and cold

In Hull or hell he lies

His housemaid she tried but the dirt grew so fast

The darkest of colours he nailed to the mast

Stuck in his ways like he's stuck in the past