Don’t fall asleep, keep senses keen,
While training it to Wembley Park,
To Dollis Hill or Willesden Green;
For if you doze as sky grows dark,
You’ll wake to views that chill the marrow,
For you’ll have ended up in Harrow.

Within this place there is no cheer,
No pleasant green or babbling brook;
No tavern offering warmth and beer,
Nowhere to eat or a buy a book.
There’s only standing stone and barrow,
In that wasted land called Harrow.

The region’s void of living things,
With ne’er a dog or cat or mouse;
No butterfly with painted wings,
No ladybird or spotted grouse.
You’ll see no kestrel, dove or sparrow,
But only carrion crows in Harrow.

Harbingers of doom and death,
Portents whisp’ring of decay;
A wind that seems the Reaper’s breath,
Grey ash on all that you survey.
The ruthless march of Time’s swift arrow;
Such are the sights you’ll see in Harrow.


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