There is a pattern for all the punks stapled to fat they chew. And a pattern for the bears, obliterating any beehive. A pattern for honey-lovers, fingers dripping with amber. A pattern for yuppies, calling greasy take-aways in their Porsches. The pattern I have is simple peacock feathers. They layer one another, Producing a distinct mazey track That leads back along each shaft, waving Across the wall to the window Like a rolling field of wheat. Each purple eye stares back, Intent on piercing my body To read my inner thoughts. These patterns all amount to nothing. When you've stacked everything against The wall only see a callous blast of wind Scatter and shatter it all across the yard, You know that it wasn't worth the effort And it'll not be worth any more effort To re-stack them, only to watch them tumble once more. I think it must be time to close the pages of this book - Let the author finish the last chapter before tearfully Wishing all the characters of this grand, sublime pantomime Farewell, Au Revoir, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye.
John Lydon, English singer, songwriter and musician, was born today in 1956.
A. A. Milne, English author, died today in 1956.