Tower Three

The echo of a thousand marching boots hammers on the air. They're

singing anthems, chanting oaths and whistle as Salome lifts her skirt

because they're 'real' men and they're healthy, happy... own the

place. They raise hell when they're sober, wrestle tigers when

they're drunk. In their living rooms a picture of the queen nestles

in between Miss August and a placard saying HOME IS WHERE THE HEART

IS. (Keep it pure, keep it white. Keep it free of undesirables

because freedom is so valuable and getting scarcer.). Fight! So they

march. Smashing windows, splashing slogans, pushing petrol bombs

through doors 'til a uniform appears. Gently whisper in the ear of

the leader. "That's against the law but we'll ignore it this time.

Peace Krime's got to be official!"

Keep it clean. Keep it quiet. In a lonely moor the digger's working,

bigger holes hold more... And the patriots stay in as convoys rattle

down the street. No-one hears the weeping, no-one listens for the

cracks at dawn. The shovelling goes on and on and on. But the

patriots aren't frightened cos they heard it on T.V. that a Golden Age

lies 'round the corner. And day now...