Motorcycle Landscape

Modern Hanging Gardens grown from Babylon seeds.
While rust pram baby batter sculptures covered in weeds.
The grass on the verge has gone old pubic grey
And the children in cement bag clothes won't hurt you if you pay.

For there is a doll's arm floating in the scum
And it's calling you over while it's calling you a bum.
And it beckons you to brown. And it beckons you to brown.
And it thinks it found a chance to drown another in a motorcycle landscape.

The only thing that orchards bear are nails of bloody red.
On the pavement frogs and contraceptives trodden dead.
All that we can reap are tattered gurlie magazines.
Torn out genital cigarette burn, girls not in their teens.

For there is a doll's arm floating in the scum
And it's calling you over while it's calling you a bum.
And it beckons you to brown. And it beckons you to brown.
For it thinks it found a chance to drown another in a motorcycle landscape.

Gaily as we skip along through fields of needless wire.
Glued up youths in high spirits throw kittens on the fire.
And down molester alley, the stabbed all roll in bliss.
Surely God would never send his son to a world like this?

For there is a doll's arm floating in the scum
And it's calling you over while it's calling you a bum.
And it beckons you to brown. And it beckons you to brown.
For it thinks it found a chance to drown another in a motorcycle landscape.