The milling feet on busy streets
Are such sweet sights to see.
I’d trade a gross of village oafs
To be in London, free
Of all community;
In anonymity.

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, there you are,
I see you’ve been away.
You know that Joe’s poor wife has died?
(A massive stroke, they say) —
The funeral’s today.”

“Why Mr. Dennis, welcome home!
It’s weeks that you’ve been gone.
I’d thought I’d call to let you know
(I saw your lights were on) —
Joe Wilson’s wife’s passed on.”

“What ho, old chap!  And welcome back.
No, not much happening here;
Except Old Joe’s wife’s passed away.
(Cirrhosis, so I hear) —
Aye, thanks.  I’ll take a beer.”

The blessed crush and neon rush
Of London calls to me.
Its siren wails and taxi hails
That speak of sanctuary;
And anonymity!
Sweet anonymity!