On the demise of the old Northampton Bus Station
Stop the temporary clock, ring a brutalist knell,
Pause and salute the closing of the Mouth of Hell
Silence the traffic and with some efficient cops
Evacuate the town centre, till the nightmare pops.
Let aeroplanes circle over Sywell
Scribbling on the sky - "you'll have to drive to Twywell",
Put crepe bows round the necks of Bridge Street drunks
Worry that the noise might wake the long-dead monks.
You could get to North, or South, or East or West,
Commute to work in the morning, or home to evening rest,
Our day-trips, our journeys home, on drunken nights our grief;
We thought Greyfriars would last for ever: Imagine our relief.
The buses are not wanted here: let them to Northgate roam;
Let them block the Mounts; take hours to get you home
Let Health Service workers fret in three-hour queues.
Or head to the Olde England, and turn to the booze.