In rags in their normal place

where diesel machines roar by

Pale dawn, at the scrapyard gates

Fast food parks and hardware mines

Not smiling or frowning they,

the shades on the fringe of town,

unpaid, idle, lending shape

to the gravity which they say

has dragged this country down

This beautiful country down

Close off the backstreets, no-one goes

Bring on the ice, the game-shows: brain-blister



The bigger the roadside crowd

the denser the gameshow cloud

There's nothing on that churning screen

Just nonsense that might mean: