She's got London

She's got London, etched into her soul, deep conviction her only compass; owing no apology or reason to rewrite her story.

She's got London, echoing her rhythms, for though her faults, far greater are, what inspirations lie around the page.

I toiled winter's snow and air, amidst the club and fang;

to find 'everything that was not death,' howling in her stare.

She's got London, printed on her hands, and I will sway, regardless of what any critics say, to the symphony they conduct.