The Ballad of Bard and Roses

A soporific street on a soporific night
is dragged from REM to daylight.
A SWAT team bust in, survey the scene
of decadent squalor and elegant licentiousness.

"Who are you and what's your game?" he says. I says

We are

Graffers,
Taggers,
Authors,
Paupers,
The sons and daughters of
Mixed martial artists,
arsonists,
artisans and the partisan.

We are

Concoctors,
Conductors,
Concoctionists,
Brawlers,
Maulers,
Filthy kerb crawlers,
Ballers,
Shot callers,
High rollers,
Bank rollers
Rocknrollas and trequartistas.

We are

Anarchists,
Self-publicists,
Public house frequenters,
Deviants,
Miscreants
And anti-war protesters,
Tree-huggers,
Chuggers,
Illegal ingesters.

We are

Boys on choppers,
Girls with whoppers,
And girls with itty-bitty titties too.
Leisure pirates,
Lager louts,
Ticket touts,
Them with pumped-up Botox pouts.

We are

Buskers,
Beggars,
The unemployed,
Drunks,
Punks and Buddhist monks.

We are

B-boys
And Fly Girls
That dance On The Road,
Light-fingered bastards
Fuck the barcode!

We are

The good that die young
And the good that survived.
The frigid,
Asexual,
And the massive sex drives.

We are

Rude boys,
Ragamuffins,
Ravers,
Rave-savers,
Organ grinders,
Winder-uppers.

We are

Nit-pickers
Knicker-sniffers
Strippers and tabbed-up daytrippers,
Hustlers
Con artists that did youse like kippers.


We are

Plotters,
Schemers,
Utopian dreamers.

We are

Workers,
Strikers,
Heathens and vegans.

We are

Vagrants,
Vagabonds,
and James Bonds.

We are

Martini drinkers,
Shaken or stirred.

We are

Pint sinkers,
Words get slurrrrrrrrred.

We are

Boy racers,
skirt chasers,
shirt lifters and grifters.

We are

Stags and Hens
And Lads on Tour.

We are

David Nutt
Sir Ian Gilmore.

We are

The Wired sat down to a Naked Lunch.

We are

Ladies what lunch sat down for brunch.

We are

The Mods
We are the Mods

We are the,
We are the,
We are the Mods.

We are a splendid lot,
My gang and me, (I says to the heaving, sweaty SWAT)
And if we're guilty,
Lock us up and throw away the key.