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| From The City Folk Club |
He stumped along the fetid towpath.
Carrying bits of broken bird bath.
He limped across a rickety bridge.
He mumbled verse on a wind blown ridge.
He saw a light and made a sign.
He tried to unravel a ball of twine.
He shuffled his feet by a moribund stream.
Birds on the wing were singing his theme.
His golden transport had been delayed.
All of his pointless flags were frayed.
He didn't know which way was up.
He got his lip stuck to a cup.
A wicked orphan set fire to his shirt.
He rolled around flailing in the dirt.
When all this happened non could say.
Perfidious winds blew the traces away.
Yet nailed up high across the lintel.
For all to see, that is until.
The clanging bells of Armageddon.
Rattle it loose four horsemen to tread on.
These simple words of execration.
I am the agent of my own damnation...
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