Oh children of the future … conceived in the toilets at Meadowhall …
to be raised on the cheap cold slabs of garage floors …
rolling empty cans down the stairway … (don’t you love that sound?) …
whilst the thoughts of a bad social worker ran through his head …
trying to remember what he learnt at training college …
Lester said he wasn’t allowed in here … so why don’t you get lost? …
and if you grow up … then when you grow up, maybe … maybe you can live …
live on Kelvin … yeah you can live in Kelvin …
on the promenade with the concrete walkways …
where pidgeons go to die …
(a woman on the fourteenth floor noticed that the ceiling
was bulging as if under a great weight.
When the council investigated they discovered that the man in the flat
above had transported a large quantity of soil into his living-room,
in which several plants he had stolen from a local park were growing.
When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.
When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.) …
Oh God, I think the future’s been fried … deep fried in Kelvin …
and now it’s rotting behind the remains of a stolen motorbike …
I haven’t touched it, honest … but there isn’t anything else to do …
we don’t need your sad attempts at social conscience based
on taxi-rides home at night when exhibition opens …
we just want your car radio … and those Reflux speakers …
now … suffer the little children to come to me …
and I will tend their adventure playground splinters with cigarette burns
and feed them fizzy orange and chips …
and then they grow up straight and tall …
and then they grow up to live … on Kelvin …
yeah … we can have ghettos too …
only we use air-rifles instead of machine-guns …
stitch that … and we drunk driving lights …
in the end … the question you have to ask yourself is …
are you talking to me … or are you chewing a brick?
