I am the bar of my own tune, and that's the beat of sexual healing
the bar of my own tune that is bald headed metal and long haired rock and afro-haired club and sunglasses only for the truly cool.
I am the bar of my own tune, that danced with my mother on bent knees as if we were not caucasian,
the bar of my own tune that led me to wish I had a voice like Tracy Chapman and Joan Armatrading and Aretha Franklin.
I am the bar of my own tune that will eventually cause me to crash my car for having earphones in at the wheel,
the bar of my own tune having fallen into the back stage of an advert for some new house insurance, yoghurt or perfume
and allows the nation to get down and suck the life from the consumerist system we strip for.
My heart is worn, sheets weak, poems torn
it's fucked, on the way out and it's my father's spawn.
He's twitchy and even deeper itchy, from the STD, we'll smoke now...
and he stays on call, switching but not on the ball.
I'm up against a brick wall,
I've rolled the fag but the flint isn't working.
I'm flirting now, he's lurking now
in the bathroom of my netball team, it's over now,
there's just steam.
And I'm calling the cavalry, doing one for the team
he's mad as the hatter, got fucked on the hashish tea.
I'll plug in my headphones, bar of my own tune
fucking father, what a fucking loon!
I trailed the streets a lonely result of bad protection,
or no fucking protection,
that bounces on highs through life and death,
when I turned back to see the lights of his car.
A rest for my weary head, slightly drunk head;
upon his shoulder as he takes the wheel,
falling out of the tune to the world of the real...