Sadly, I know not Enough about your pater
To carve you a curse Enclose it in lead:
Dread defixio Dooming him to pains,
Ill-luck in his love life, And loosing money,
hair, and health; and possibly heart-attacks.

Instead, I will scribe Again the story
of the vast Castra : How it viewed calamities,
changes in roads And river-channels,
And in tongues of the townsmen, And in its towers:
"One is left to me: western tower-ward,
Rebuilt by Britains, Barbarians and Normans.
(The monastery by it, Murdered by the king,
now it mews a museum. All things are mutable).
My gates are gone Save that whose way goes
to cross the pennines. Where the cannabae stood,
Constantine made a colony, To remember his conquests
Ramparts he built there. The ruins survived,
when next came the Norsemen. They knew about towns!
Built they a new burg Beside the Ouse-bank,
Where the Fosse flowed in, To furnish a harbor.
A new bridge built they (The stone one was broken),
And so made a mainstreet To Micklegate Bar.
To the banks of the Fosse They extended my fortress-wall,
Left by the Legions, For many long years.
No folk dwelled there, When this land was Deira
Save monks at their Minster, Now mighty and great.
But strems silt up, And ships grew greater,
And left was I lonely Unloved by merchants.
An Industrial Age, changed that in an instant:
The Fosse was re-dyked, Far from the walls,
I became Rail-town, Ruling the raillines.