The hair, the clothes the jumble sales
the box, the used cars, the telephone
the used houses, the yellow pages
the young solicitors and agents. The devils disciples turn up
In her dreams every night. Something dreadful something fails
“I’m on my own, I’m on my own.

The theatre the cinema the fairy tales
supermarkets, new cronies and old crones
a guru in his Russian tunic fools
the communist mums from finishing schools.
The heavy rites burning her up in her sleep every night.
Something dreadful something fails.
I’m on my own, I’m on my own.

The dozen years, the last hopes,
the children the future the loving parents the gifts
the blind men who offer lifts.
The doling out of rescue plaits
whole armies climbing up the ropes
with sores to show and wounds to touch.

Something dreadful something fails.
I’m not alone, I’m not alone.