Trapped in the fog; a gaslight glow
dimly sets a backdrop of the early morning
as them washed out blokes scurry away
at the touch of first light's warning

Slowly this curtain rises on the day
drawing the peddlers and urchins out
A mixture and murmur begins to say
'Tis time to air the city streets out

Wind up the tea and coffee steam pots
Lay out them wares and croissants
break up the night and all its haunts
get on your gear and go for a jaunt

See all them red-eyes arriving at the dock
where port-men meaties are taking their stock
Then heading out to settle their lots
before the rush of the trader's clock

Airships line the skies like clouds
with busy crews running around
and tethered tight to the earth
like trees with roots growing down

Here we drive wheel and gear
the great machine of all we hold dear
carved from land and washed in sea
born from air - this Steampunk dream