Peter

Peter was a rebel

Who stood at Hyde Park Corner

Waving fists at crowds of pigeons strutting by

And policemen standing by

With arms folded behind their brains

Staring up at brick glass buildings

Whose computer zombies stared back

Through their windows with deep sockets

That once were seeing eyes

Peter was a rebel

Who realised that the population

Was really not interested

And now works in a computer mock mansion

Spewing tick-a-shit

For 12 hang-up-drop-dead-pounds a week

And watched the clock ticking

Through morning noon and night

To eternal sleep