Blue billboard on the roof next door
Makes a square of light on the kitchen floor
Smokes rises from a cigarette
There's a dull glisten where the table's wet
Soft breath rises from the bed
A thousand question marks over my head
Turn on the tube but there's nothing new
The usual panic in red, white and blue
"Military advisors" marching in the square
Knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air
Private armies on suburban lawns
Shoulders braced against the tidal dawn
All's quiet on the inner city front
I don't know why I should but I feel content
Bell in the fire station tower
Rings out the measure of the racing hours
I slip through the door to the roof outside
To gaze at the sign hanging in the sky
That sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed
Doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget
All's quiet on the inner city front.
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