We are going on our holidays Never going back Through the apocalypse traffic The vaporous mirage A dissolving dragon’s breath Of steeples thin as falling glass Spilled tropicana cordial On the strangely serene damask And leatherette upholstery The boats all turtle-backed Marooned above the shingles Sea birds stalking on the keel Crusoe desperately waving From the shadowed underside Level crossings and cattle grids Iced-cream coloured songs Droning on the radio The static full of summer lightning Not quite knowing why We are dressed as cowboys When we prefer the Indians Nested in the back seat Breathing deep the plastic old car smell Smeared in grins Tears and sugar On squalled faces No, we are not there yet We have bows, and Colt 45s Caps and arrows For passing threats In Clint Eastwood voices We are gone Lost as lariats On our cowboy holidays We are never coming back
