Blonde and blue and made of balsa,
A figure from the distant past,
As wooden as a model waltzer,
The boy prepares to start the blast.
All his words are thin as paper,
Clothes are cut-outs, cheap as card,
He has the substance of a vapour.
His actions are a poor charade.
Every gesture is a clunker.
Isn't this from long ago?
Buried underneath a bunker,
Future still an embryo?
Hard as nails, but mere bravado.
The galaxy has gone for good.
Brixton, Brick Lane, Colorado -
That bombshell face. Beneath that hood.
