Suburbia, where housewives bleach their souls in kitchen sinks and soaps,
And husbands wash their cars and trim their hedges, still maintaining hope
Their hairlines don’t recede too far. “It isn’t art,” they sagely say.
“Unless it’s painted and makes sense.” They’re slowly drowning in the day,
As romance shrivels in the heat, and sprinklers keep their small lawns clean,
Their hearts refuelled in Tesco queues, their lounges blurred with Mr Sheen,
Where thoughts are buried in the mire of commonplace and well-turned beds,
And books are merely ornaments to line their shelves and not be read.
God help them should they ever feel the pulse of life disturb their bliss,
And see suburbia for the graveyard full of corpses that it is.


24 responses to “Suburbia

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