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