The end of the skyline,
Framed in grey on grey,
This is my memory of you Hull.
There is oddness in your deadness,
Like dreaming of watching old cine of myself as a child,
I can't grasp that it ever happened, my memory fails.
Then the faintest whiff of stale scent,
Tells me I'm still trapped here,
In a dead end that's finally died.
Just a twist in your twisted rails.