Past the new coffee place, a chilled refectory
Close to the station and the chip shop
A cool black hulk, it invites you to stop
With its flyers for music and poetry
In transit, from doorway to doorway
I observe them - the wraiths
The cold air silvers their breath –
The coming up and the going away
It looms through the mist, like a ghost ship
In this Bohemia, this cabaret
Close to the station and the chip shop
Thin young men are doing stand-up
They are talking of music and Jean Genet
Of irony and cool English pop