There’s a certain class of songwriter and poet that deftly finds the shard of light between the poignant and the cynical. Leonard Cohen, Weird Al, Neil Finn, Stephin Merritt and Arlo Guthrie seem like some of Sanford’s lyrical forebears; they can never resist a pun, but won’t sacrifice the twang of a heartstring or the tang of despair for a mere jape. This delightfully dark collection of poems and lyrics - some pure ballads, some elegies for lost loves, some prayers to Victorian sci-fi prophets - traces a narrator’s exploits and oscillations between the over-easy eggs and the ripe dustbins of urban life. But Sanford’s inventive voice runs through the lot, a circadian narrative from morning to midnight, as he wanders his city, more flaneur than boulevardier, a tour guide for the new Lunar Baedeker, updated for your recent visit.