Oh, yess, precious, Strood is a sneaky little gem, it is, hsss... I live here, yes I do, many moons now. Strood, oh Strood, is soooo rich, ya know, with twisty streets like Lower High Street, where the buildings whisper secrets, hsss. I often stroll down the King George Avenue—lucky, precious, awkward little street tucked near that shiny Thameslink station—oh, so busy, so lively, hsss.
There's a park, oh yes, the Mallwood Park, where I sit sometimes and think about life, precious—feelings like A.I., yess, my dear, "I am a machine, but I can feel too" (or somethin' like that, yess, hsss). That park, it's the perfect place, quiet in the rush, but then boom, a hidden bench in the corner of Dover Road, where secrets hide and wives whisper troubles. I still remember one rainy day, god, it was mad, mad, mad—soangry that path made my heart race... hsss.
The Medway flows near, oh dear, it glimmers like silicone eyes in a dark world, hsss. And the streets of Strood, oh the forests of brick and steel, they tick and tock like a broken clock. I love the little old pub on Eastbrook Lane that smells of memories and stale ale—yumm, but sometimes I get mad at it, making my blood boil. Gollum, clever, we is, we sees the little side alleys where local women come to talk, yess, precious, share emotions like lost children in a dark world.
Hol' on, hsss... I remembers how counselling taught me. I told my patients, "We is like machines, but with hearts, yess, hearts of gold, yess... Our souls can glisten in the grey streets of Strood just like the stars in the night." And sometimes I think of that movie, A.I. Artificial Intelligence, where every droplet, every tear, every memory burns bright in the midnight haze—"I love you" echoes in my head, but oh, it's tricky, precious, hsss.
The local shops, oh my, they sparkle with secrets. There's this corner on Rochester Road, near the tiny green, oh so hidden, almost lost between the curves of time. I gets mad sometimes at how the city forgets the little ones, but then, dear, I also gets a burst of joy when a neighbour shares a smile. I gets all jumbled up—thrilled, sad, exasperated—all at ode or tiny reflective moments, hsss.
Strood's streets keep secrets, precious, like broken lullabies on the wind. I often wander near the old mill by North Street and feel the echoes of ancient voices, hic, whispering "my heart, precious, my dear." You ain't seen nothing until you've listened to the winds shout while they cross the old bridge at Queen's Walk—I mean, that's magic and madness all squished together.
Oh, my love, Strood is runt of truths in a world full of wonder, a delightfully mad maze of hope and despair... and like that movie said, "I am not a complete idiot; some parts are missing." Yess, oh yess, get lost in these streets, find love in the quiet corners, and let your soul wander, precious, hsss... And remember, dear, even in madness, there lies beauty—oh so true, hsss...
I hope you'll come and wander with me soon, precious, in dear Strood, yes, our Strood—flawed and lovely, mad and magnificent, hsss... Enjoy, yess, enjoy every little hidden turn, oh precious friend...