Dexedrine Witchcraft

This town is a town,

Where rats pace on two legs, unshaven in thick coats,

Or in pinstripe, cast-type archetypes,

Or stand on little stages to preach theirs and their own,

And their emotional worth.

Each unified only in contempt of each other,

Planted whilst young by the local hive mother.

Great Mother Skinhead's shouting;

"They're stealing our jobs!"

Whilst her bastard bigot offspring lap up,

Curdled milk and social prejudice and drink black blood.

Grandmother Censorship, coloquially known as Nanny State,

Is fumbling with the ideas of the nation,

But her palsied hands are shakey,

(Urban decay and post-modern smiles)

Her efforts are largely being politely ignored.

Even Mamma Charity,

Who has been wrongly accused,

Of high treason or something-or-other,

Is now no longer trusted by anybody,

Although I am slightly fond of her naive belief,

It should be safe to take candy from strangers.

Paranoia has usurped her,

And the Red Age has murdered Kind Mother Possibility,

(Like Lazarus to rise again.)

Opium Optimism, my old friend,

Assures me that the future will see all this banished,

And will drive out these hollow, haunted horrors.

With their amphetamine vital signs,

And their dexedrine witchcraft..