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Streetwise, slangy, irreverent, intensely self-aware (and well-read), the poet-speaker steals a boat (in very un-Wordsworthian circumstances), jumpstarts its outboard, and survives long enough to tell his tale 'Of London, of Global Warming, of HEAT magazine... of squalid Thames... and of its fall'. The shades of William Blake and John Milton - ghost writers - act as Virgilian guides, ushering him towards 'the first day of the rest of my death', at Battersea Power Station (the service entrance to hell).
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