Glory be to man for factory things—
For skies of smog-filled odours like an open
For corporation road-holes, all in rudeness—
up the street;
The gas pipes, poles, dust-bin lids and fag ends.
Landscape polluted and pierced—re-developed,
And all trades their gear and tackle and train
To desecrate the Earth and all that’s in it.
All things, awkward, ugly, queer and strange;
Whatever the fiddles—VAT (and who knows
The blight of sweat-stinked executives greed
Will father-forth ever greater monstrosities …