Tiger, Tiger
They're burning down the pubs now,
all accidents I'm told,
No petrol cans at twilight
or matchbook fronts unfold,
The George and Dragon bought it,
they paid by breathless fire
The White Hart stumbled closely,
no arrows of desire.
The Rat and Phoenix mingled,
no feathered tales arose
Just carpet cleaned by fireman,
within a smoke of prose
1 watched some sparkling ideas,
unleashed upon Tithe Hill
So sadly on the ground now,
its history lies still.
Their names live on in guide books,
"The Admiral was there!"
Half-Nelsoned into dying,
not aleing, but by flare.
They never catch these Guy Fawkes',
who load the powder high
And whisper to the death of night,
your history's goodbye.
Jerry Pike
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