My father, booting home. It rains.
You're twelve, thirteen, the door is locked.
Outside, there is nothing that I need
There you go again, diving in
Mummy, mummy, there's an armoured tank in the front room!
You can blame many things on ABBA
Somewhere on the streets of Paris
I will cut my hair too short and speak too loud
Frankie's gotta blade
So what IS this thing with Flamingos, the one-leg thing?
In an easy, uncomplicated way
My father shot the Christmas roast, and then turned to us
Here is a bird that will never be
I decide and feel everything begin to simmer
I may be the Mayor of Bombay
Swimming up the Amazon, patient.
I am a child. They bury me.
They were at my table, talking. They are dead.