The belvidere tar ,was soft , picked at with intent ,
Sour leafs often tasted , but never quite ingested
The sap of the finest dandy , seemingly made for a leak in your bed ,

When elvis died,  my first memory of music pain , his Saturday crap movies set a standard,  it was rock n roll, I am not ashamed,

Then punk rock playing from another room,  my dearest brother, oh **** by the buzzcocks,  a new sonic boom .

Music  from the pistols to the bee gees and Handel,  its makes me what I am ,from the summer of 77 tar stained blue sandals