John Belushi is punching out the pus,
Bob Marley’s ghost seen on an ARA bus.
Ian Curtis strangled with a guitar wire,
a 100 UK sailors make a funeral pyre,
a scream queen takes aim and fires.
Non-stop sweating in a crowded sex-shop,
it’s a fair cop, the mugs have got the drop –
this time. Plenty of sauce, you’re for the chop.
You can’t win, make mine a gin or better still
perfumed sin stirred with a riding crop, OK?
A pregnant globe, a zombie stadium,
Pluto’s got a date with Maree Radium.
Stay young, stay gay, be debonair,
come out of your Frigidaire.
Today’s fab moderns wear high-fashion gear.
Cool girls showjump at the gymkhana,
boys dance in an abortion panorama,
Mummy meets Mr Right in Havana.
Marathon runners sleepwalk to Tropicana
where Captain Death sells rum-soaked bananas.
Old ladies stacked beside the Kleensaks,
Captain Death gives them all heart attacks.
For the theatre of rats, for the school of bats,
bubblegum brats and slobbering fat cats
Jimi Hendrix’s on the highway in a stovepipe hat.
A teenage psychopath murders his twin,
the living dead leave the looney bin,
a Buenos Aires diplomat gives a blood grin,
the line goes dead on Idi Amin,
Natalie Wood gets soaked to the skin.
At the Springbok show trials
the prosecutor’s smile’s got piles,
the jury’s refereed by fullbacks.
The anti-protesters do a piss take
when the pro-magistrate makes a mistake.
Blood overflows from John Lennon’s shoes,
Sid Vicious rolls over to tell Keith Moon the news:
negatives of black nudes, jugs of cold booze.
As the Assistant Commissioner blows a fuse
A snare drum beats the Captain Death Blues.
From People of the Land (Penguin, 1988)