Victoria’s Secrets

O how my great liberal heart labours
With the piss in my rivers and gall
Before gleaming ceremonial sabres
Who falls on them falls for us all...

Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
Every night I pick the locks and the gaolers say...

Some nights when I look through her window
And she seems an old lover to me
There peeling off her black nylon knee highs
And yielding her breast to the sea...

Every night I pick the locks
On that white Victorian box
But there's nobody home in her telephone bones

I've kissed the green gem of the east coast, drunk the tropical fizz of
The north
Played the far flung sand castles ate at by the Indian
Froze in the broken off port
To my blue collar sprawl out the blue stony wall
Where the weather don't bother and the sea don't recall
Sometimes it's a dead man as wide as he's tall by a blue blooded matron, and under her shawl

Every night I pick the locks on that white Victorian box...
I find buttons and bones, tiny soldiers, toy trains and murder...
Every night I pick the locks and the ladies scream "Vain!!"