The tins of peaches, tins of cream,
All stirred with sugar, served with juice,
Shot through with North Sea gas and war,
With woodsheds, polish and despair.
There could have been the three wise apes.
They’d sit beside that music box,
Where Maurice Jarre and Pasternak
Were lost amongst the jewelry paste.
And off downstairs, the TV times
Would bring the wrestling, bring the scores,
And pools results and solemn prayers,
Before the pier-end sing-alongs.
Those three wise apes would see it all,
They’d hear, then chant their soap stone curse.