Stephen Song

It was a thing with a head like a spud ball
 It was a song, the song we were looking for
 I always have to state to myself
 It has nothing to do with me
 He has nothing
 He is not me
 (His vendetta parchment)
 Floating grey abundance
 Against my palace of conscience
 (Our hero deeply loved
 Moonlit walked past privet and wide-leaved foliage)
 I'll tell you of the rats in this world
 Fawning in place with The Face
 Men coming between each other
 For the sake of a two-minute urge
 (It is headless)
 Worth $5 in London
 And cursed anon.
 Our hero, still deeply loved
 Moonlit walks past privet and wide leaved
 It was no more a net of mesh
 It was class
 He did not blink a lid
 He braced his self-imposed gorgeous adult net
 And breeze
 And it was class
 And no no-man's land
 Ever had this?
 Their follies are strong liberation