Y ~ Fugitive punk

The train for the harbours
had an inland station written at its head
I panicked at the platform
and the porter said, "Boy,
you aren't much of a traveller,"
as he boarded my doorway with his wooden steps

Old camel-face here
I'm dressed as a punk in second-hand rag
The brutal Parliament are after ragged me
I admitted I fancied the role of the mole or the slag
Well they went ape, said, "Boy,
you aren't much of a traveller."
I fled up through the chimney with their birds at my back

I've a cittern at my elbow
My mastery of language is endlessly incomplete
A bient?t, darling
Auf wiedesehen, pet
Do svidaniya, boys
So long, ifendi
but I am a master of costume
Just not much of a traveller

So I board the next train
Nearing Rhyl's neon inferno
the tide has retreated and atop
the vast plain of rippled, coffee-stained sand,
behind the wild grass lies
a white, rust-fingered passenger liner
For a moment it seems inhabited
Masked dancers roam in its hollows
But the light I reach for is only
the late evening posing in the windows in drag
Since I am not much of a traveller
I hide myself there and await
the stomach of the sea