Concrete Prairies

I grew up in your small towns
Though you never noticed me
America in black and white, 
On our little screen.

The car park was my prairie
My cactuses the weeds
My brother’s old red chopper
Was my noble steed

Abandoned shopping trolleys
Were our wagon trains
Pioneers in alleyways
Damp from English rain

I broke out of the jailhouse
And jumped a westbound train
Got as far as Gospel Oak
Then it turned around again

We dragged old tyres and rope to
The wasteland ‘cross the way
And swung over the water though
You could jump across most days

But  I was on a Mississippi
mighty steamboat Queen
Sitting on an old back gate
Bumping down that stream

I headed for the barroom
Swung open the doors
The outlaws turned around and
There was a nervous pause

A liquorice lace please Mr A
and 4 white chocolate mice.
A single cigarette you say?? 
10p, ok. Nice.

I swaggered home back to the ranch
Gun back inside my holster
And ate my sweets underneath
My Marlon Brando poster

Yes, Half a bitter please, and
A rum and coke for Jane
in the pub behind the supermarket 
Off the Neasden Lane

but it was really Moonshine
Made in Grandad’s barn
And I sipped it by the canyon
Next to our old farm

In the empty concrete church
I screwed up my eyes and dreamed
Of folks in clean blue dresses 
Who really did believe

In Jesus, God and Dylan, Levi
Jeans and Old Tom Joad
Honkytonks and Motown
and long old Country Roads  

The Soundtrack on my walkman
I never stood a chance
America hear me sing
See the way I dance