To flirt with stars and moon,
The tail-lights in the summer sky
As May slinks into June,
Where grown-up Mods and Rockers
Keep the gardens of suburbia
And Army wives wait up all night
For transport planes from Serbia.
Older than conquistadors
And lost in jungle long ago
A vast and hidden city lies
Asleep in southern Mexico,
Its pyramids and plazas
Ports of call for vivid birds,
While English archaeologists
Stare awestruck, lost for words,
At the faded hieroglyphics
On the columns made of stone
And wonder in the sticky heat
How Mayan flesh and bone,
Which fashioned this metropolis,
Could slip into decline:
The snakes the only sacrifice
Still slithering on the shrine,
The scream of baby monkeys
And the high mosquito whine
On the terraces and temples
Now bequeathed to creeper-vine.
Those doctors linking mobile phones
With instances of damaged brains
Should spend an hour in Standard Class
On any of our rush-hour trains.
The evidence is obvious:
Concertos of mundanity
Assail the ears of travellers
To drive them to insanity.
And this is how the mantra goes,
Relentless as a bad refrain:
"Hello, I'm on the train."
Hello, I'm trying to read a book.
I don't possess a mobile phone.
I've just escaped from Broadmoor.
You say you're travelling all alone?
A Mekon for an editor,
A staff comprised of chowderheads,
Is all you need to scour the world
For sodomites and powderheads,
To purge the closets of the stars,
Root out their sexuality,
While wrecking lives and livelihoods
And trumpeting morality.
A sportsman or comedian,
A royal bride-to-be -
It neither matters who you hurt
Nor to what degree.
But if you do it long enough
You'll reach the same conclusion,
That everyone's messed up on drugs,
In sexual confusion.
Therefore, let's draft a brand-new law:
All tabloids off the shelves
While editors and journalists
Investigate themselves.Reuse content