"John paddles up the long brown street

On two brown boats which are his two flat feet

And London houses blink at him and whisper:

'Whose are those spectacles, whose is that thin whisper?

Is he to be one who sees us as we are.

Stock-brick and concrete, mortar and tar,

Sees how we squat above an old green field

To choke its life? We are the iron shield

Screwed tight upon the buried face below:

John Arden sees us: we see him: we know.'...