Staggering beside the carts, like dull warhorses,

we stumble along endless tracks and mud-souped ditches,

always stooped, intent upon the next step.

Rattling behind, grisly chains of disarticulated bones,

tied by tendons and ligaments, trail beyond past horizons,

 a century of war.

Rainbows always cry.

The holly bears a bloody fruit.

All victors ethically vanquished.

But...

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Its Saturday night at the taxi rank

street angels are steering girls to the cabs;

legs over tits like a Picasso and

it’s wild, and it’s laughter, and songs are buzzin’.

So can you hear the people weeping?

can you see the children dying?

All you knew was love, Alan, all you knew was love

as you drove your taxi through this world.

And the laughter and the love in t...

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