Oh, King's Cross!

How long have you lie above London's soil?

Where moody mother nature meets man's shrewd arrogance

These marks that old men refer to of loss

All here consumed by a blind business, glossing

At their yet-to-be fat wallets and that overt pursuit

Of happiness, take for example, this bunch of redheads

The mother, in timid attire, berating her children to hurry

As the dad, morbidly curious, his attention astute

His eyes stalking at those cute-looking muggle tools

And that older brother, quite the fool

Looking rather humbly boastful

With his pristine robes and well-governed books

Their right to be dirty utterly revoked by a cruel

Wary dictator, in shackles to his own rules

And those twins that play circus tricks

They ravish in their juvenility

But set awash that clownish paint they would dye in

Simply kindred spirits giving each other kicks

A semi-futile effort to fix

That bitterly average life of a Weasley

And those little ones basking in the novelty

Of a new chapter

Appears rather ageless at the present moment

But such is only the product of youthful poverty

And that rather odd one, choosing wise

Something the tattered, broken man would fail to be

His callow eyes leering at these lyrical cries

Of men, long dust, but whose words

Will never be left unmolest, to die

He'll be an enigma, no matter the time

Who prefer that gift ordained to all men

Than wands, potions and flying broomsticks

But that budding iris could not predict

What lies ahead of him, in wizarding greatest den