And so, we end this knackered, run down year,
the crazy, wacky types flood into town
to glug down watery pints of marked up beer,
watch the London Eye spin slowly round,
the drawn out, pyrotechnic money shot
as Mayan Armageddon comes around.
It doesn’t matter, end of the world or not,
as long as I can spend it here with you,
watching DVDs back at our flat
as the city fills up with its host of tools,
the droll denoument, Robby Burns’s song.
The forced frivolity will take its toll
before the first of Big Ben’s doleful gongs.