Broke in, took nothing and then went.
She cased the attic, tried the door,
Left love notes in the dresser drawer,
Sprawled briefly on my garret floor.
Can't think what she was looking for.
The wintry eyes, the battered face:
A front-page study of a name
I all-but-worshipped in my teens,
Pete Townshend. He's the one to blame
For quite a lot of things I've done,
Like smoking Player's Number Six
While doing playground scissor-kicks,
To purchasing The Who Sell Out
Then throwing good guitars about.
Some boys just never quite grow up,
I don't know why. I can't explain.
But thirty years goes down the drain.
The discs go on. You're young again.
A scissor-kick? Just one, alright,
Before I settle down tonight,
While Pete stares out from Indie, Mon,
As if to say, "I saw yer, son".
Now here's to health campaigners
Who have unit-graded booze
So schoolkids trying to cane it
Now know which stuff to choose.
The new home/school agreement?
A fabulous idea.
I'm speaking as a parent,
I have to make this clear.
The six-year-old's in trauma,
But what's a bit of stress?
The management's dynamic
And hell-bent on success,
With dogs to round up pupils
And longer homework hours.
Why not complete the circuit
And have machine-gun towers?
Then target-dodging parents
Or anyone who's late
Can have the contract cancelled
Before they reach the gate.
A Dickens season's coming;
They broke the news this week.
The schedule planners love it
And viewing figures peak.
Some nice Victorian clothing,
A murky lamp-lit lane,
A brace of stupid surnames,
And off we go again.
"Good even'n' Mrs Gribbles.
D'ye beat the boy, I say?"
"Why yes, sir, Scratby does, sir,
That's why 'e ran away.
His mother died in childbirth.
We used to thrash her too,
When Obadiah Flenching
Was butler here to you."
"But what of Mistress Nubbidge,
And Clowcher, her young friend?"
"Old Hobbity might beat 'em,
If willin'... This weekend."Reuse content