5 p.m. and I’m sat on a train,
Opposite a right wing man in a suit.

 
He's complaining that punk is dead.

 
I nod and agree,
All the while thinking,
That he killed it,
He locked it away:

 
No more safety pins,
Torn clothing in the bin,
To curse is now a sin,
Loud music now a din.

 
Punk vinyls in their original plastic,
"God save the queen!" Is no longer ironic.

 
I keep thinking that again and again,
He killed punk, one of life's chained men.
He's probably an accountant or something as exciting.
Left by the crowd, wanting to be young again.

 
But he can't.
He killed it.

 
Jonny Rotten, rotting in his briefcase.