waggworld creative media:

 

madly

clad necktie down in foreign frown
we're battle weary, good for nothing,
heart-rate puffin' coughing crips,
pre-occupied with launching ships,
a full supply of dodgy hips, and
just as foreign birds in foreign
ports our knackered thoughts
slip through our knackered words.
"it hurts, it hurts, but oh big mac,
take up the slack, I'm on my back."
The crowd is waiting, salivating,
oven-ready, quite unsteady, giddy,
crappy, thoroughly batty, and
never seen in habbytatty.
And guess who lost their head tonite
and woke up feeling dead tonite
got sick of thought and think tonite,
and dreamt he kissed his shrink tonite.

It's Ford Cortina's jubilee,
a blue metallic captaincy for
teaching fears and poaching years
from pram to prom: god save the bomb.
No dancing foils through midnight swing
no lancing boils with Bob and Bing, or
cut back cotton tie-dye feats beneath
the spotty teenage sheets, we're
having safe sex every night and never
once get madly bit with angry bite.
And guess who lost their sight tonite
and felt like getting tight tonite
and drove themselves to drink tonite
and fell in love with their shrink tonite.

The book's re-writ, the scale extended,
pending advice from the man who mends it,
'n theres no dry eyes in the house,
whilst on the screen a harbour where,
a bagage weary brigantine,
be-schooled with loveless ardour
smacks of dirty tricks routine,
and floats on wild Sargasso scene
whipped daily for the dignity
of a soft-ice making men machine,
a stuck-up, cocked up, mucked up, fucked up
Norman Wisdom Dream machine,
where worth is all, a mighty has-been,
with everything but life on stream.
And guess who saw their life tonite
run off with somebody's wife tonite
not feeling in the pink tonite
but feeling like a shrink tonite.