Hull or Hell

Of larks trains windows and brooks
 The poet he writes it all down in his book
 Won't meet your eye but he wants you to look
 In Hull or hell he lies
 Lambs in the winter and swans in the spring
 Children at play they're like birds on the wing
 And the poet he writes that the sun seems to swing
 In Hull or hell he lies
 Away from the world and away from the page
 Hidden in corners the gathering of age
 Retreats to the wings where he once held the stage
 In Hull or hell he lies
 The dirt and the filth that we don't get to see
 That's eating his language away
 This yellow-eyed nastiness hides from the light of the day
 Resenting the everyday growing so old
 Where winter once pictured as flowers in fold
 Turned frosty and bitter and weathered and cold
 In Hull or hell he lies
 His housemaid she tried but the dirt grew so fast
 The darkest of colours he nailed to the mast
 Stuck in his ways like he's stuck in the past