Poetic Licence

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The Independent Culture
From television presenters and Radio 2 jocks to people in the Royal Circle, it seems everyone is sampling Hell's Own Harpic

It's a mad amount of money,

Buys a small amount of powder

Makes the conversation louder

And the mediocre clever.

From the land of never-never

Where the toilet is a palace

Comes a symphony of sniffing.

It's a mad amount of money.

A sheen upon the upper cheek

A beak-lunch for a busy week.

My god, it's bloody boring

Watching some pathetic geek

Pat the stash-bag in his pocket

While he tries to play the star

In a fashionable khazi

Which purports to be a bar.

For a dab of nuclear sherbet

It's a mad amount of money,

As they disappear for ages

And the atmosphere goes funny

On the stilted paranoia

Of the insecurely groovy

With designer sinus headache

And a nostril that is runny.

In the provinces, the people

Who are last along the queue

Get a little in for Christmas

For their girlfriends and


'Cos it makes them feel naughty

When they get to over 40

With the healthy-lifestyle leaflets

On their pastel-coloured shelves.

It's a mad amount of money

For a frozen little smile

From a trollop in the papers

Whose stupidity's in style.

And it's really wild and wacky

What these dazzling people do;

I expect Bolivian children

In the jail cells think so too.