Bird-legged cottages and huts crowd the London streets,
stepping spindly over the taxis, shitting embers over cyclists,
queuing in the streets behind the buses,
chuckchuckchuckchuckchuurck, they murmur.
Old women with iron teeth gaze out of the windows,
then return to their magic mirrors,
or to their housework,
Hoovering through fog and filthy air.