It's like Brumagem's been hit by a one kiloton bomb.




Polluted unemployed, washed up on a W.M.P.T.E. desert,
sharing their seat with bus pass pensioners,
how they'd condoned the butchering of half a planet,
so it would never happen again.


So I read the last library book,
felt the security machine take a look,
oh I've got a low profile,
carry on son,
I'm just doing my job, and how's your mum?
walking on concrete washing in tears,
the machine has materialized our worst fears.


Isn't this meat lean,
I will go back to that shop again,
as second generation hippies,
plunge into the flood drain,
as green spiky tops,
are having babies,
those on the road scabies.


The only thing left will be electricity pylons
and "Psstt love, do you wanna buy some forties nylons"?

~