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