Nationwide BS

I'm gonna miss it

repossessed. Me and our kid 
in his vest

The barbeque from

B&Q, the garden –

weeds are growing through.

You were the pimp and

I the whore. The thing is

who is paying for

the hundred plays I

never wrote. The music?

Not a fucking note!

You took my dream of

liberty. You bought

my creativity.

You should be punished

for your crimes. Instead you

offer comfy rhymes

soft focus dreams of

what we had. But where

were you when times were bad?

The factories, the shops

closed down. The life sucked

from this hollow town.

The house weren’t mortgaged.
It was me. I swapped my
soul for slavery.

You wanted us to

be like you. To join

your pin-striped wrecking crew.

Your easy finance

was not free. It bought us

mediocrity.

A million loans a

millions cards and 

a million prison yards.

Barking at nothing

Hungry and deprived of better meat
The bulldog snaps at gristle in the street
Snarling at the world, this slavering beast
Begs for favours at his master’s feast

Let this dumb animal express the creed
Of a deluded nation gone to seed
A canine lacky to the ruling class
A creature with a poker up its arse

If we depart from Europe, watch the news
For blander food and longer airport queues
Holidays in Skegness and in Dover
Days on golden beaches will be over 

The isolationists will seize their chance
For intolerance and ignorance
Enough of Rousseau, Sartre and Foucault
Philosophy is alien, you know

Ending larger dreams, for who were we
To hitch our flag to foreign liberty?
If they prevail, our future will be shot
To bark at nothing is the bulldog’s lot

Please donate generously

Somewhere in our country tonight
a blank face from a mirror stares back

a lonely tormentor turns off the light
at night, there is no-one to attack

daytime is their prime territory.
It’s true that they could victimise the cat

but since animals do not cry
where is the satisfaction in that?

When they are tucked up in bed
they have little opportunity

to oppress those who are merely talented
with their terrifying banality.

To obfuscate, browbeat and distress
to knot the stomachs of their prey

and render them horribly depressed.
They need you. So give to a bully today!

Ballad of Yellow Hair

 

You know this is a quiet place
And simple folk we are
That’s why we choose who’ll run this town
With whisky in the bar

It takes a very special guy

The sheriff’s star to win

It seemed to be a lucky day

When Yellow Hair came in

His golden locks looked good to us
His promises seemed sweet
He said, I’m gonna kick their ass –
The bad guys on the street

I’ll fix this town, I’ll drain the swamp

I’ll make those hombres pay

My silver Colt will do the job

At noon, on Saturday

Eleven came and then came noon
At one, a shout went round
It’s Yellow Hair in the saloon
At last he has been found!

We saw that he was breaking bread

With those he claimed to hate

The twisted and the sick at heart

The meanest in the state

He used the toughest ruffians
To guard the bar room door
And now he spoke profanities
Not like the guy before

What about your promises?

At last a brave man cried

Who are you? Said Yellow Hair

You cannot come inside!

He’s started being loud and rude
And boasting of his gold
He’s always been the baddest dude
And craven lies he’s told

You could say that he toyed with us

But then he gave us hope

His currency was powerful

The six gun and the rope

You know this is a quiet place
And simple folk we are
That’s why we choose who’ll run this town
With whisky in the bar

Somewhere in the deepest hell

Where men parade their sin

It’s unclear where their badness ends

And Yellow Hair’s begins

Ulysses of the library

You could say that it was a dull story.

Yes, I gave you when, where, what

and at least I had a crack at why.

But not much actually happened. 

I was not like the action guy

whose brave deeds get the girl in the last shot.

The hero does not reflect much.

He does not need to. It's all instinct.

He goes in feet first, fists blazing.

 

His actions are driven by his gut.

His why, in the final analysis

does not stand up to much scrutiny.

At least you know something of my biography:

the beds I sweated in; the upside-down days

when rain pattered onto the rooftops

the frowsy sheets printed on my memory

the hopes and moods that impelled me.

I was the Ulysses of the library.

Philip Larkin is on Top of the Pops

Phil Larkin straps on his Gibson SG

for the blistering riff of Mr Bleaney.

It's his chosen weapon of attack.
He looks at Johnny Rotten – a flashback.

The Sex Pistols had outraged the country
with their foul-mouthed ranting on TV.

Thanks to their anthem, God Save the Queen
they were more outrageous than Benzedrine.

How he had admired their first LP.

when was still at the university.

He wrote a letter; Johnny said ‘join us’.
So he went down to London, on the bus.

His first gig was a room over a pub.

Next thing, he’s playing the 100 Club.

Steve Jones is toast, says the NME.
Larkin brings to the band a new energy.

See him swaggering down the King's Road

he has finally killed off work, the toad.

Punk’s gain is a loss to the library.
Each slab of noise is a sonic elegy.

There's a tender savagery to their sound.
Marr had Morrissey, Eliot had Pound

Lennon had McCartney; he has Rotten.

The grey mornings in Hull are forgotten.

Rotten scowls, from Sid a cheeky grin.
One, two, three, four … Paul Cook counts them in.

Smile like a fool, pull out the organ stops.
Philip Larkin is on Top of the Pops!

Experience

These three flew too close to the sun

but now in their embroidered finery
they are pinned to the dust of history
glowing faintly in a junk shop window.
Their crushed velvet rebellion
that once burned so brightly
seems like a trick of memory.
Did it happen? Now all are gone.
Like three tropical deities
they play on. Squandered royalties
and blown amps don’t matter now.
Answering a muse higher than poetry
with their amazing musical alchemy
Jimi, Mitch and Noel: their last show.