Last of the Unknown International Flâneurs

London timed where it all began
 A plethora of transport choices
 Places to look at the floor and know to use your voices
 To harrumph at the indignity of it all
 To look at your phone and hope that nobody calls
 Get up and leave the germ vans
 Where to talk
 Is an agony
 Leave the wagon
 Be a flâneur and walk
 Daniel Defoe was a man in the mode
 He would, taking a stroll through the London of old
 Thomas De Quincy would
 Go for a mince he was
 Wandering since, he became convinced to
 Try something stronger than gin
 Do, in trail, the dens, and the inns
 Perhaps he might pass outside the kind of door
 Behind which Louis Stevenson would hide
 (See, hyde with a y, get it)
 I, myself, artist and critic at once
 Head to Lord's for the cricket after lunch
 Then find myself in Holland Park, or in Leyton House Gardens
 For a clip after dark
 I cover ground on these streets like no other
 Or join Mr. Drummond on a manhole cover
 I perambulate around the town too late
 Then retrace the steps of the nation's greats
 Because I am the last of the unknown international flâneurs
 What did that chap say?
 Paris
 Then would take up the gauntlets
 Around the Arkay's and Horn's I'd saunter
 I want to have a sit-down but there's just so much to see
 [?] and B flanning around Paris
 Embracing the present
 Surroundings so pleasant
 Missed the metro, slept in bin bags like the Paris Peasant, Aragon
 We perambulate the city without stopping
 I'll tell you what we're not doing though
 We're not shopping
 It's the [?] to we who believe
 That a weave around the streets is a way to achieve enlightenment
 And revolutionary zeal
 If only we could be bothered to make the thing real
 [?] or is it ghee(?)
 Got close enough but his propensity to G and T
 Meant he was always stopping and topping up
 He got the hump and left the crot up in pubs
 Myself, I'd like to think I'm following up
 I'll take his drink but I've merely borrowed the cup
 Because I am the last of the unknown international flâneurs
 (Excitable chap isn't he, what)
 New York ought to get an honorary nod
 The American city one can perambulate slipshod
 The diliberdation(?) of the others is ill
 San Francisco's nice but too many ruddy hills
 Manhattan itself is a city planner's dream
 But impossible to get lost
 So a flâneur would deem it a failure
 Until he reaches the white horse
 Where Dylan Thomas held his final discourse
 On whether or not he invented rap
 That's an argument for another time, odd chap
 The urban drifter
 A philosophy to last
 Viewing the present through the prism of the past
 Tricksters and pranksters and tramps and dandies
 Genius loci with a hip flask of brandy
 Bandying about theories upon never stick
 Strolling 'round town like a right clever dick
 I am the last of the unknown international flâneurs
 Yes, I am the last of the unknown international flâneurs
 That's right, I am the last of the unknown international flâneurs
 You know who I am, that's right, international flâneurs