We were not children and there was no revolution.
We were just freaks, living a poor substitution
For the glitter and the glam and the gender bending,
Which never made it to our town, where the War was never ending;
At least, according to our parents, who had no tolerance for queers,
Except for Larry Grayson, in his Generation Game years.
We wore high waisted flares, but with precious little flair.
We grew sideburns to cover acne and hid behind long hair.
To deodorise our platform boots, we sprinkled them with Brut;
Our uniform a Budgie jacket or a C&A safari suit,
In which we patrolled the perimeter of the disco dancing minefield,
Where our enemies wore peasant skirts to keep their wiles concealed.
We waited for the moment when the music faded, quiet and slow.
We hunted by light and bitter, homing in on a fag end's glow;
A practised pincer movement to separate the herd,
Confusing them with questions like; 'Do you fancy being my bird?'
A snog, a grope, a grinding crotch; a past-its-use-by condom:
Another generation of children and still no revolution.
