Come British Bombs and Drop on Slough
Big glossy, glassy buildings to the east
And south cannot disguise the truth. Dull Slough
Is tasty now because of dark brown yeast,
And Turkish sausages, and spicy chow
From Shalimar and Karachi. The white
Kids blight the street. In school they are a blot
On gold-embroidered silk. A Hindu light,
A Muslim modesty, a careful knot
Of fabric on the Sikh boy’s hair are signs
Of decency and beauty and will be
The glory of the town until the lines
Are blurred by Britishness’s recipe
Of cynicism, smugness—and the sneer
Of pessimism— teaches them to jeer.