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Led by Mr Dick we rancid folk ran amok
Bowling our crud on the parched cricket lawns of Kent Rolling girls and rolling boys we sank of teeth into our teens Like torpedoes.
In dells and holes we poked about for mushrumps For Cloten’s army of headless, neckless tat
We gassed and sat undone Like torpedoes.
Our clog heads fugg-full of hate for
The twerps that taught us nothing except How to push and kick and maul or feel up Like torpedoes.
We walked the chalk downs cheese-skinned Pongy, runny, pitted with black salt smiles Cursing our strim shon sick short little lives Like torpedoes.
Our bags burst with petrol and soft jelly syrups Zip pocket of string, steel wire and wool
Till from the parched cricket lawns of Kent Our crud fucking flared
Like torpedoes.
November 13, 2014