Stevie Brown
Stevie Brown lives in a town that's collapsing under the weight of Tory failure. Seeing what's on offer - pills, knives, and general chaos - and given the choice between living and dying, it's better that Stevie Brown goes home to his mother.
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Spotty lads in leisurewear
And bucket hats
Kicking around
Kicking cats
Go home to your mother, Stevie Brown.
The cops are out frisking teens
One kid has a knife in his jeans
Another has a bag of pills
To help his granny pay the bills,
Go home to your mother, Stevie Brown
This is your place, your town’s
Run into the ground
It reeks of cider and mace
And every second person
Is completely off their face
Stay here long enough
You’ll sink into the clay
There’s a funeral every day
And the coffins are getting shorter
You’ll be led to your slaughter
Go home to your mother, Stevie Brown
This is your place, your town’s
Run into the ground
It reeks of cider and mace
And every second person
Is completely off their face
Tory bastards going low
Basking in their failed blue glow
There are houses falling down
And the trains don’t stop
And the buses are tipped over
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© Daniel Roy Connelly 2023
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