I met a traveller from a common land
Who said: ‘Two vast and legless spray-tanned slags
Sleep in the gutter... Near them, on the street,
Half-drunk, two bottles of red wine, uncorked
And pouring vaguely crimson juices out
Into the bunged-up overflowing drain
To mingle with the faeces and the piss.
Under the bright half price stickers is shown
The label, read by flickering street-lamps:
"This wine was made from vines in Portugal
A mild and fruity taste, goes well with fish."
No dignity remains. Round the still shapes
Of those colossal wrecks, in rainbow hue,
A pool of vomit stretches far away.'