Slagen,
Slagge,
Slaggy Isle.
Precipitous piles of rubble, reviled
By those who lived miles from our Slaggy Isle.
Though for anyone born there, with nowhere to compare,
They were mountains for dreams to run wild.
High-plains drifters out roaming, across wastelands – Wyoming,
Lost in the dross but beguiled.
Down below, in her place,
By the Ladies she waits,
A steep fall from grace
Etched in lines on her face.
Pallid,
Ragged,
Alice Bunn.
A by-product to shun: residue, scum,
Yet, at night, one by one, they sought out Alice Bunn.
While they called her a slag, a discarded old bag,
Desperadoes in darkness would come.
Drunk on impure intent, by the glow of the Gents,
Deals in the shadows were done.