Wealdstone is a little town in Harrow,
With litter often flying everywhere;
Of course it has its pigeons and its sparrows,
Eating thrown out breadcrumbs when they dare.
In the High Street where the locals do their shopping,
Are the shops and supermarkets side by side,
And the little boys walk by there window-shopping,
In prams and pushchairs toddlers get their rides.
Outside the town itself are rows of houses,
With front gardens and their flowers and small trees;
Back gardens are of different shapes and sizes
And the clothes lines sway and swing there in the breeze.
The great sky up above is seldom peaceful,
With the sound of aeroplanes low overhead,
And the noise they make is very far from quiet,
For it could pretty nearly waken up the dead.