We think we're hard done by

Coasting in our sleeping bag boats,
Binliners of lumps
waiting for our names
and for our coats.

Oh Lithium Lovers
Are we ****** - ?

Are our bloodlines blue,
black and blue and botched,
blotchy on the page,
cowed and crowing in the cage?

We were birds, stunned birds,
Singing to the guns,
With picks behind our eyes
And walls to catch the turds.

We were history
We were gassed
We were mush inside the glass,

We were carnival sweethearts,
We were the horrors of the crowd
****** if we were quiet,
Or a bit quiet,
Or loud.

Yellow pages,
A pipe,  not a pipe,
Notes -

What's your name, darl?
And where's your coat?