From patriarch to just-born flee through wire,
The cheap mistake of Men with Vans,
A dusty tunnel to the scrub and Lancashire,
A file of mischief, four-handed burglars,
An evading invasion machine,
Loose-limbed and camouflaged like mud.
Out on the killer road, they dodge,
Traffic police and traffic,
Make landfall in allotments,
Crossing farms and fields on vegetables,
And scavenging, on wits and freedom,
Made heroes in confusion and flares.
They are punks in a sea of Glam-Rock,
Mug-shot in colours not-seen before,
Beige and short-haired with three chords,
Visigoths with wiper-blades,
Fencing car-parts across the county,
From shining sea to Yorkshire.
They sideline in play scripts,
Tapped out on a billion, stolen typewriters,
Lifted invisibly from dock containers,
Stealthy editors of all promoted garbage,
Telling the truth on the life inside,
Sanctioned vandals to a man or monkey.
* Before Ebay
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