I set-off on the bicycle
To trundle down the hill
Into the Town so grey
Where all the folk look ill

I feel like a virus
Under a microscope
The sun howls, and goes down
A patina of cloud hovers above
Out in the wasteland we are stoned immaculate
The moon perches a star on her cloven hoof horn

See the rich nobs at the N.S.F. ‘do’
They only go ‘cos they want to be cool
Paying all that money for a charity affair
Only poor people really know how to share

Titles, lords and ladies and O.B.E.s
Is the magazine for the sick
Or does it help the helpers care?
Can you go through your life
With a blanket on your head
Doped up, you’re better off dead

Wholistic brain drain
Stops the woven paths
Blocks the healing process
When will it stop?

Why do I feel a stranger
In this place where I was when young
All the familiar faces
And the lovely places
Have worn away like plastic veneer
Bleached by the sun.