twinned with heaven and hell.
Your Sagrada towers were clawing,
when the darkness fell.
Like gnarled and blackened fingers
trying to escape the fetid smell
of your drains and copious litter
which have never served you well.
Your religion is now Barxa
the football club winners,
whilst the cathedral serves tourists
and McDonald’s for dinners.
They swarm through your halls,
your forest like pillars
to an edifice carved, for Slush Puppy chillers.
To the magnificent remains of Gaudí’s great dream,
a burger bar eyesore, a turd in the cream.
The paradox is, and I tell you no lie,
that the people he loved just left him to die,
struck down by a tram, on the ground he lay,
pistachios in his pocket for the fare to pay.
A taxi to hospital would save this life,
but fear of non payment just twisted the knife.
Yet a more wealthy man there never has been
surrounded by riches to the city, unseen.
Oh Barcelona, Barcelona, your rambling streets of shame,
not just thieves or crappy restaurants are to blame.
Don’t waste your time or hard earned cash
on this soulless city all stinking of trash.
Even if the weather were a little wetter,
I think you would find, Venice much better.
Al Morton aged 53