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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Behold the cold village watchtower fog and holiday summer fields bundlin' hay, the Officers Club back door buyin' grog till all our money slowly pissed away! Up the back roads hoonin' in the hot seat and down Sparkin Hill runnin' on fumes, or ride that city bus into Queen Street after school up in the snooker rooms. And lock and load shoot to kill in dead fall the winged corpse of blackbird and pheasant, when fools, tricksters and gamblers staked all in the gamin’ rooms of Hitchcock Crescent. Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas. And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill I would walk to the house up on the hill. In the bright burnin’ lights of the prison runnin' like a fugitive in the night, and as the last beer and hormones kicked in so did crimes of passion in the moonlight. In rush of young blood in curves and curls between the sweaty bales of Percy’s barn, where tales of turgid boys and bare-arsed girls spread like the clap village rumour and yarn. Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas. And when the sins of youth had lost its thrill I would walk to the house up on the hill. And in my rum soaked body and soul hungover in my DTs and detox I lay. Smokin' doobies of Acapulco Gold sorely truly fu*ked on my bed of hay. Through all my changes I was a dreamer and lived a trepidation and a ruse, but when she lay bare and I between her I lived the dream in my puberty blues. Oh youthful crimes and misdemeanours in Hillmans, Zephyrs and Cortinas. And when the lusts of youth had lost its thrill I would walk to the house up on the hill. Written: April 2000
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