Old Elvis

 

I grew up on an edge of town council estate
You know the ones. Posh if you had a wooden gate
The obligatory old teddy boy tinkering with cars
and fat girls squished into last year’s bras
displaying with pride the perfect quad-boobs
to the upside-down bike boys fixing inner tubes
who were keener on scanning their dad’s porn collections
but anything’s fine to aid hourly erections
Toys mostly eaten by damn weeds and grass
where once roses grew but got a pain in the arse
when he moonlight flitted with her from four doors down
causing the old ducks on the corner to frown
and yabber with spite about the single mum
who’s jeans were far too tight on her bum
and who’s gentlemen callers could at least mow the lawn
instead of sneaking off at dawn
We played chicken down on the railway tracks
Desperately hunting for pleasure in packs
Setting fire to old mattresses down by the lock-ups
Oblivious to all of the government’s cock-ups
Off on adventures and so unaware
of our parent’s growing, white-knuckle despair

That was nigh on thirty years ago
So what’s changed? An awful lot as it goes
You can slag off Blair and stick pins in him
But imagine if Labour had never got in
Ok times have changed and I can’t seem to let
my kids have the freedom that I used to get
though we’re sat on an edge of town council estate
and my garden’s the one that the neighbours all hate
and old Elvis is still working on that damn car
and the old dears still point a finger from afar
but no-one here lives on beef dripping and bread
They’ve all got their big TV keeping them fed
But here we go forth into historic repetition
and thanks to this fucked up coallition
I’m the parent keeping my kids unaware
of my ever-growing white-knuckle despair.

 

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