Swindon, drab splodge on Wiltshire’s plains
Trains pass from field to bland brick without warning
Corporate cubes, each in the fashion of their decade
Clump together like architectural bindweed
A scan of the skyline and nothing draws the eye
No wrinkle or mole to make the plain face captivate
Stadium spotlights and Mini ads
The best you can do to flirt with a stranger
Pigtown you are a woman too fat and old
For short skirts and high heels
But too young for pensioner brown and Scholls
Give me a spark of mischief and knowing
As if you once had lived