She didn’t morn them
those daft punks of her youth
or the pseudo anarchist wide boy
who basked in the limlight
buttered up, by the sceaming dispondents
of the great punk rock swindle
lubericating his pee shooter, pistol style
in old school Brill cream, left over by Bullington boys
filled with envy, of their shiney shoes, & licking their rings
for a few minutes of prime-time screen time, chat
as he grasped for glory.
A has been, who never believed in anything, including himself
A bravado, of Brit pop, suckled, on the loadsa lolly dollar
for which he grappled.
Trumped up puppet of the machine
with little more than a fake smile, faded and debunked in exsile
She didn’t morn them, those daft punk$ of her youth,
& she ignored him, disillusioned by the man he was
a vicous batrayal, & disapointment to the cause
and the movement of her youth.