This is Camden
This is Camden.
A place of struggle and hope, inspiration and conflict.
Where scoundrels mix with scholars.
A place for poets and artists, one called Sickert and another called Pissarro, yes that’s Piss-a-rro.
Where writers wrote in squares and slept in circles.
And made pleasure a pursuit.
Where music crashed culture and the way we wore trousers.
And the poet Keats fell in love and wrote ‘Bright Star, would I were stedfast as thou art’
And then died.
Where railways were built and brawled over and 4 castles kept them apart.
For some it’s madness for others not enough.
It’s where a roundhouse became an art house.
This is Camden. It’s old, it’s young, it’s straight and it’s gay and everything in between.
Where the days start late and the nights last long.
Where a man called Dick shouted “stand and deliver”.
It’s got a cemetery on a hill with a man called Marx. You might have heard of him.
This is Camden with a beer called Hells, because for some it’s heaven.
And we’ll drink to that before we climb that hill.