God, Dubai, the night of your jade isles lit the rest.
Dancing in the cold dens of thousands,
Of rakishly met herds in heaven-scraping towers;
Unto this spire, will land the squire,
As Helena waits atop holding red flowers.
This Shakespearean night, oh fecund the west,
Cake may be the meal, query not whether to sustain the rest.
And shimmering faces, cacophonous louses,
Dawn in haute couture, diamonds and blouses.
In this land eyes see you entities,
Down on the strands, shopping for your antiquities.
Around legs which scurry, snowbound by flurries that loathe her,
Pip hawks pies to curb scurvy whilst a broker Turing affords closure.
We dream of your sandy water depths, your graying and sensory impaired;
But here just us cogs, chains link in copper repairs.
Heat waves and dusty waiters heed waifs, serve icy drinks in the sun,
But when the rain comes and staves - God, Dubai, where is there to run?