The Silver Trumpet Brayed

By the old deserted bandstand where the winter skinheads play
There's a weeping band of teddies in the tree
And the shrieking birds above them and the baying dogs below
Have no wit nor wise of what they think they see.

There are whistles in the garden, there are wails upon the wind
When the teddy boys enact their noble rite
There is weeping by the willows and their tears like tractors fall
As the drainpipes strut and stride the winter's night.

But they have no sense nor reason, for their intellects are small
And each tiny braincell, wasted and alone
Cries out in dread and anguish through the stinking snooker hall
"Should I seek salvation still?" but on the stone

That stands beside the bandstand, in letters bright as sand
Lies the story of the leper and the lamb
And the teddy boys are singing "Take me back to Katmandu"
And the world knows well, they'll never understand.

posted by Weasel @ 9:58 PM