In New Wave days and times of Kitchen Sink,

The Club could seem the centre of the world.

Spent workers went inside to swallow drink;

Tempers might flare, cheap insults would be hurled.

 

Booze sharpened anger, retribution swelled,

As unattended wives would cast a glance;

The sum of all emotions was expelled

In cold revenge with little left to chance.

 

And there’s a husband, decent but straightlaced,

Whose role has been usurped by rough-necked charm.

He calls, to mend his standing so defaced,

On mates and brothers with a stronger arm.

 

The rogue toils all day on the workshop floor;

The showdown is approaching like a train.

They jump him as he swaggers by a door;

Bravado will not save him from the pain.

 

Now, rescued from the sawdust and the spit,

He’s led by his intended for a look

At brand new dreamy houses which are fit

For every young consumer’s credit book.

 

And meanwhile in the back streets, pregnant girls

Are seeking cock-eyed fixes from an ‘aunt’.

They boil themselves in baths and pawn their pearls;

The future is for those who can, not can’t.