I met an antique from a travelling band,
no longer cool whilst getting stoned.
Features chiseled by harrowing sand,
half-drunk visage, hard-lined, hard-owned.
Wrinkled posters whisper crumpled petition.
Apathy triumphant, esteem long since dead.
The pretty young blondes that once came to fruition,
now mock, now fuck, in the factory boy’s bed.
Banished from the pedestal of those beautiful things,
no longer grandiose to those Kith and Kings.
No longer mighty. No longer despairing,
no longer cajoled to sing songs in shame.
No longer bound to appease vacant masses,
no longer shackled to those minutes of fame.
Liz Milne over 4 years ago
I love it!