The Spurs of the Cockerel

Boy racers pass in large numbers

Waking priests from their reverent slumbers,

Vanish in clouds of blue gasoline

Leaving dark marks where their tyres have been.

Engines that move by the power of ten horses

Occupants altered in shape by G-forces.

Boy racers pass in their white GTs,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Climbers on peaks in the Andes

Dream of the life of the dandies,

Slim cigarettes held in holders of jade

Drag boys who stroll on the glass esplanade,

Cool Coca-Cola in blue-tinted glasses,

Silver decanters and late dinner passes.

Climbers on peaks sit and wonder,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Crass Latin waiters hold trays up

In clubs where the night person stays up,

News-reading ladies in glittery togs,

Paid baby-sitters look after their dogs,

Cherries that toast in a sea-fire of brandy,

Debutantes sipping their apricot shandy.

Crass Latin waiters swear under their breath,

With the spurs of the cockerel behind them.

Brown paper clerics read masses

To herds of the best-tailored Fascists,

Fast people’s custom-made Rolles and Mercs,

White hands that ill disguise tailor-made smirks.

Silk-lined cravats and velvet pray-dos,

Never a glimpse of the old tennis shoes.

Brown paper clerics are playing it safe,

With the spurs of the cockerel above them.

Not that I’m bitter.