Ode to Hong Kong

There's no equivocation here, Hong Kong belongs to me,

I was there before the tradesmen of the king procured their tea.

The polluted sky is mine alone, So worship it each day,

The junks that sail on murky seas are never washed away,

For typhoons that fiercely pound the shores for ninety days a year

Pass on through by my command then kindly disappear.

I have no claim to my Hong Kong, it's just a foolish itch.

The Chinese own the fucker now. Every seam and stitch

Of tailors who sell 'copy-suit' and mimicked finery,

Of hawkers who sell 'copy-watch' with utmost slimery.

The smell of putrid grease that layers every market street

I'd sell my soul right now if I could feel it under feet.

The fear I felt was crippling that I'd one day leave the place,

That I'd have to return to England to some graceless, faceless base.

I loved Hong Kong more than I'd loved any other place,

The people had no manners, would happily spit in your face.

A friend of mine passed out in town, his wife was sure he'd died.

She screamed and begged for help, the locals walked on by.

So why did I love Hong Kong, why do I love it still?

Why love a place that makes you want to permanently kill?

Why eulogise, why write an ode to vile, corrupted masses?

It's liberating living down amongst the underclasses

To shuffle off the shackles of constricting English bearing

And live amongst a populous with no concept of caring.