Coventry, oh Coventry
Your name does strange things to me
with its round-vowelled lilting beauty
It brings to mind scones and tea
and Morris dancing and all that is Englishy
(and a naked woman on a horse but this poem is not meant to be kinky)
Your name is silky, Coventry.
Coventry, you lie to me
When I visit you all that I see
are concrete blocks and faded humanity
Your bus station is full of knives, needles and debauchery
and the people are always bothering me,
what IS that metal bridge monstrosity?
Your name should be Slough or Wrexham, Coventry