BPI

Somewhere back in nineteen-eighty-five,
The Novel-Writing Machines were copied,
Then modified to make music, safe and warm,
Something unobtrusive built to merge,
Into our long-valued lack of revolution,
Made to sooth the blank and supine youth,
With rattle and no hum, no hook or thought,
Vanilla waltz and four/four, little else,
Nothing to excite the soul but soul,
Dilute, shake, dilute again, prescribe,
Just expensive sugar pills and water
Not the rage of nineteen-seventy-six.

But that was reproduction just the same,
A manual factory for all the filth and fury,
We’ve got this money, you’ve got anger,
A Revolt to harness the old establishment,
And wet money to curse innocent society,
As so uncool, the word itself just so,
We are archaeologists, documenting rants,
Unearthed from Palaeolithic trenches,
Long-hidden under Wardour Street,
Then brought up nicely by new radicals,
You are the future, your new waves fading,
All hot air and no sound worth saving.