A mole I was, a rabbit, plumbing deep
The secrets of its underground warren,
Deep in the brown clayey soil of Croyden;
An old town, where a new one rose to leap,
Mixing Surrey with the blood of Lambeth,
Borough, the Old Kent Road; new strains growing
From unfamiliar stock, that mixed in tough
Proximity; in fields meant for sowing.
Lost I was, caught in Penelope's web;
That right from left, o'turned all reason's truth,
Confused all sense, when to my hole of ruth.
A map I made, pathetic of its type,
Of hubris lost, before the time was right.
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