Past crowded buildings the train rushes by,

Past a yard full of scrap metal piles touching the sky,

We stop at a signal for quite a long while,

I can see gloomy men with sacks of scrap for the sorry pile.

Every kind of useless metal is added to this heap,

It is growing by the minute about thirty foot deep,

So the melancholy pyramids rise to a great hight,

A cemetery for old things once important and bright,

The signal ‘comes off’, a clank, and away we go,

To anther bit of theatre from the gardens in Bow.