Feet on table
Fag in gob
The ultimate designer yob
A picture in the attic and
A blueprint for the older mob
Who slouched to school resentfully
Or hung around the cemetery
To scratch their love on mossy tombs
For tardy girls from coffee rooms.
The inkwell eyes and sullen stare
The lupine looks and bird's nest hair
Pervaded later rock and roll
The urchin dandy of its soul
And parents asked in disbelief:
"Who is that Thing?"
We called him Keef.
Guitarists spend their lives denying
His influence. Of course, they're lying.
In posture, image, riff and hook
They waste their time. He wrote the book.
And when he dies ... and if he dies
The press will cluster round like flies
And every chorused voice will go:
"We told you so. We told you so."
And then they'll ask, in faint relief:
"What was that Thing?"
His name is Keef.