Raincoat blues.

 
They stuck paintings,
until the burnt out walls,
singing muse and waterfalls;
forging new gold rings.
 
 
I went with the fisher boy,
to the Roundhouse,
to hear the Incredible String Band,
a long time ago,
when art was free.
 
Then they built that tower block,
right next door,
spliffs in the window,
light for the poor.
 
And so a tea room treat,
in a tenement neat
and the best of you,
went to the lonely lake
and raised a beautiful daughter.

 
~