LYRIC SHEETS / The Death of a Transit Van

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The Independent Culture
Ankle-deep in dogged out fags

Lager cans and music mags

Half-chewed burgers, oily rags

Nasty things in plastic bags

Now a roadie sat and wept

Hadn't eaten, washed or slept

Having had the salvage man

Just refuse his Transit van

Ancient faithful shagmobile

Thirteen cwt. Six wheel

Off-white Transit, rusting floor

Home to bacilli and spore

Gonococci, spirochetes

Lurking in its well-mashed seats

Rusty strings and broken sticks

Scrawled cassettes saying 'Final Mix'

Tangled in a pair of drawers

Jamming up the sliding doors

Twenty years of heavy rock

Miles gone thrice around the clock

Engine coughed pathetically

Having failed its MOT

Then gave up and quietly died

Band and road crew stood and cried

Should a surgeon be out there

Here I offer up a prayer

When I die, save what you can

But bury my heart in a Transit van

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