Listen to poem:
Crimes and Misdemeanours
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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