Punk '57-'79

Punk '57-'79

We would say fuck the system, but your knob would turn to rot.
A sloganized rebellion doesn't mean an awful lot.
Now anarchy has gone to pot, it's not in a good state.
Florescent purple pubic hair's no cause to celebrate.


Sid 's dead, Nancy's dead, punk 's dead all.
A bloody mess below the sink and sobbing in the hall.
Submission now, no future with a love that doubt has slain,
and never mind McLaren or his bollocks more again...

Replaced with dumb and patronising off-the-shelf revenge.
A culture deep as epidermis—little to avenge.
Locked in bedrooms whining that it's all misunderstood,
crave attention of the in-crowds, arms are slick with blood.


Such pretty, silly, vacant things, a youth that do not know,
events of that October twelfth, hotel room one-oh-oh.
That suicide is not a game, but fear, nor can they cry
Of passions dark, “too weird to live, and [yet] too rare to die”.

Nancy,
            You were my little baby girl 
                                                      And I knew all your fears
                                                                                             Such joy to hold you in my arms
And kiss away your tears
                                        But now you're gone
                                                                         There's only pain
                                                                                                    And nothing I can do
And I don't want to live this life
                                                If I can't live for you.

                                                                                John Simon Ritchie, 1957-1979