Apart from framed pictures stood low stilts Saved from mold and temper Where winds graced commissioned words On four inch walls and images of you Roof, old wound Bare in tiles, laid in nails Tore in bite marks Were your hands enough to hold Stories straight in communal green rooms Now Torched and bloated Young hot air Hence the chronic pain Crass and ambitious and bold and broken Ten shut doors, shut forever Held inside novelty acts and city songs Vagrant guards of pose and posh Glitter vanguard Hold in fault what is yours And I'll hold in fault what is mine Crass and ambitious and bold and broken