Mod poet Aidan Cant had poems in The Pacemaker, Pilot Issue, 1981.
What day is it? What paper to buy?
the Sunny Jim Mirror or the Private Spy,
it’s good news week mate, but I’m, not to blame,
when a top-floor shop of surgical wargames,
burns to the ground in a heap of flames.
Jason King with his mop of false hair,
likes nothing but flicking with commissionaires:
everybody flies by Dan-Air,
and a DC-10 comes down in flames,
the werewolves of London have been unchained,
we’re in a fit of depression and a trough of rain,
but you can join the army or the human zoo,
if you’re out on a limb with nothing to choose,
you can ransack a house or even wreck a train,
but please don’t sneeze when I’m singin’ in the rain.
I’ve got a special disease and I love the pain.
But it’s good news week son and never too soon,
cry the werewolves of London by the silvery moon,
and everybody dances to an old Kinks tune,
while a man with the green and defective genes,
who’s fathered nine sons and a number of has beens,
play Chinese Chequers for a packet of jewels,
he plays Russian Roulette to the proper rules.
He’s got a van full of handles,
he’s one of them vandals.
A mouthful of marbles and a box full of candles,
the pox and the filth it creeps around,
like a Sun reporter going underground,
for a nuclear attack, he can feel it in his bones,
and just for a crack he’ll even start one of his own;
and be another Philby for the big red eye,
and drink to everyone’s health before they die.