Blue billboard on the roof next door Makes a square of light on the kitchen floor Smokes rises from a cigarette There's a dull glisten where the table's wet Soft breath rises from the bed A thousand question marks over my head
Turn on the tube but there's nothing new The usual panic in red, white and blue "military advisors" marching in the square Knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air Private armies on suburban lawns Shoulders braced against the tidal dawn All's quiet on the inner city front I don't know why i should but i feel content
Bell in the fire station tower Rings out the measure of the racing hours I slip through the door to the roof outside To gaze at the sign hanging in the sky That sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed Doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget All's quiet on the inner city front.
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