08-13-2014, 02:31 AM
In between Punk and the New Romantics
was us: Plotinus and the Gnostics.
The middle vowel in Plotinus was elongated
and Gnostics began with a silent gee.
We discovered the name in Utopian fiction;
attention to detail was so important.
At school we’d all wagged Maths and Divinity
and founded the infamous Egghill Mob,
full of swagger, bravado, brash yet engaging.
We had no machine-guns in violin cases,
knives, knuckledusters or broken glasses.
There was never any truth in that.
Confrontation was always a last resort;
what we relished most was the uniform:
suede-headed, check-shirted, two-tone trousers,
shiny brown brogues and bright coloured jumpers;
the hush of respect when we entered boozers,
the admiration of discerning punters.
There was Asher the Basher and Benny the Bat,
Arson, Big H, and me, The Hat.
We were traditional types, defending our patch,
the good old working class custom and practice.
Some called us gangsters running a racket.
There was never any truth in that.
Nearing the end of the 1970’s
the streets filled up with rotting garbage;
the dead were left too long in coffins
and the roof fell in on council housing.
Folk lost faith in collective bargaining
and flogged themselves on the open markets.
We filled the gap between State and Business
but the weekly visits became restrictive;
we felt the stir of creative juices
and moved into the leafier fringes.
Some say we played progressive music.
There was never any truth in that.
We were Punk and Folk, Rockabilly and Reggae;
while you stopped in to watch the telly
we sang about squashed things in the road
and wore neo-pagan rustic clothes
that had fallen off the back of a van -
a cross between The Clash and Steeleye Span.
We released an album to critical acclaim,
entitled “That Band With The Stupid Name”.
But the tour was cancelled on our debut gig;
it were the audience we had issues with.
We expected a hush as a mark of respect,
we imagined they’d pronounce our name correct.
But they booed and swore and some of ‘em spat,
and that’s when Benny brought out the bat.
The rest of us improvised with wind and brass,
there was a smash of glass and rat-a-tat-tat.
They say shots were fired by a man in a hat.
There was never any truth in that.
was us: Plotinus and the Gnostics.
The middle vowel in Plotinus was elongated
and Gnostics began with a silent gee.
We discovered the name in Utopian fiction;
attention to detail was so important.
At school we’d all wagged Maths and Divinity
and founded the infamous Egghill Mob,
full of swagger, bravado, brash yet engaging.
We had no machine-guns in violin cases,
knives, knuckledusters or broken glasses.
There was never any truth in that.
Confrontation was always a last resort;
what we relished most was the uniform:
suede-headed, check-shirted, two-tone trousers,
shiny brown brogues and bright coloured jumpers;
the hush of respect when we entered boozers,
the admiration of discerning punters.
There was Asher the Basher and Benny the Bat,
Arson, Big H, and me, The Hat.
We were traditional types, defending our patch,
the good old working class custom and practice.
Some called us gangsters running a racket.
There was never any truth in that.
Nearing the end of the 1970’s
the streets filled up with rotting garbage;
the dead were left too long in coffins
and the roof fell in on council housing.
Folk lost faith in collective bargaining
and flogged themselves on the open markets.
We filled the gap between State and Business
but the weekly visits became restrictive;
we felt the stir of creative juices
and moved into the leafier fringes.
Some say we played progressive music.
There was never any truth in that.
We were Punk and Folk, Rockabilly and Reggae;
while you stopped in to watch the telly
we sang about squashed things in the road
and wore neo-pagan rustic clothes
that had fallen off the back of a van -
a cross between The Clash and Steeleye Span.
We released an album to critical acclaim,
entitled “That Band With The Stupid Name”.
But the tour was cancelled on our debut gig;
it were the audience we had issues with.
We expected a hush as a mark of respect,
we imagined they’d pronounce our name correct.
But they booed and swore and some of ‘em spat,
and that’s when Benny brought out the bat.
The rest of us improvised with wind and brass,
there was a smash of glass and rat-a-tat-tat.
They say shots were fired by a man in a hat.
There was never any truth in that.
Before criticising a person try walking a mile in their shoes. Then when you do criticise that person, you are a mile away.... and you have their shoes.