The graffiti cried and argued Illegitimate anger
It echoed my own, in a way, akin to judgement
The scattering pages of the Sunday Colour supplements
Stories of Mr Madonna Rattle down the tracks.
The same destination
Where I am sane and justified
The old man speaks of Puritanism
Whilst he speaks he smokes and quotes from a red top rag
Put he and his kind in the gutter
Swirl and swill
Let them lie there in the world’s abortion, the earth’s ablution.
Let them be a puritan
They become pollution.
Are the homeless really hopeless?
Are the tramps perhaps the trumps? (Donald in disguise?)
Are the racists simply rationalists?
And does anybody care?
Is the ozone just a don’t know zone?
Is there anybody out there?
Are the piss stinking streets someone’s bedtime sheets?
Oh yes I think so!