Poem by Adrian Lowe, music by Anthony Frost
Out he walks, six feet tall, twenty two years, ripped jeans,
(it’s Saturday after all).
He’s no threat he’s going to cruise the shops.
Along she walks with her groceries old, frail,
her life hangs behind her like a snail-trail,
dirty but still quite natural.
Her eyes focus, she sees him:
the determined stride and the baseball cap,
the torn pants and his Walkman.
Fearful, frightened, full of disgust and mistrust,
she crosses the street, scowling
like a scornful cat that’s just been thrown off a lap.
I felt ashamed, I felt annoyed
What about trust?
I just wouldn’t react that way.
But then, as a youth approached me
I had a sudden and crucial thought.
I don’t want to be smashed up
and I don’t want to lose these things that I’ve just bought.
So I crossed the street and silently
became a product of this century.