There was a time when he was all Mohican,
and trousers with more holes than cheddar.
There was a time when he was all piercings
and a face with more holes than the ones he was born with.
There was a time when he was all tattoos,
future regrets etched on his skin.
Now the Punk is becoming what he most feared.
Next to Marks and Spencer, which sells his favourite corduroys,
is a music shop, with a shiny Marretti in the window.
One of those fancy Italian jobs, where more has been spent on
the outside, than on the inside.
It is more than he paid for his scooter in the 1970s.
One of those fancy Italian jobs, where more has been spent on
the outside than on the inside.
It is a Diatonic in D/G.
Full bellows.
Suitable for folk, Cajun, and blues.
Not really for Bossa Nova, Jazz, or classical,
but being a Punk, anything with more than three chords
is not for him.
The Punk buys an accordion.
He joins another tribe,
with beards, instead of tattoos,
a nice cup of tea,
instead of alcohol,
and goes out into the street,
looking to cause trouble,
playing for men with big sticks.
About the Author
Ben Macnair is an award winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom.
