The Architect

by Clive James and Pete Atkin

The architect has moved on with his prize
And works his wonders in another town
Behind his back the winning towers rise
Tall and proud before your grateful eyes
Like printed circuits turned on end afraid to fraternize

The mothers watch their children play below
And wonder how to get there in the crunch
The lifts are elsewhere even when they go
And fifty-seven flights of stairs are slow
A swan-dive off the balcony would make a better show

The architect's own place is far from new
And less imbued with visionary flair
But the gun-room might just make an extra loo
And for now the carriage-house will have to do
For his fawn Pininfarina Ferrari two-plus-two

In the towers condensation pulps the walls
The window frames are taped to block the gales
And past your bedroom high-speed garbage falls
Through metal chutes all night like bowling balls
To bank up five floors-deep between the council's weekly calls

The architect will sleep tonight at ease
The floor is thick, the ground is firmly close
He dreams of Corbu, Gropius and Mies
And the right conferred upon him by degrees
For forcing Art upon the people and the Muses to their knees