August the 20th: yes, folks, its another cold, clammy day in england. a large crowd has gathered around the police station. everybody--everybody--wishes to have contact with a certain little ir
Riter within. not to discuss his works, though the works are known to them; theyve been published in the tabloid papers by the police under the heading barbaric butchers brochures.
They want to tear his very head from his body, for what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavatory. the night draws in. nobody would say a word
Him, except a fool like me [(and his skin)].

In rainy ireland in the 50s
There outside a pink farmhouse door
A small bertie, playing at digging trenches,
Asks, daddy, whats the blowtorch for?
He said, the torch will cut the cars to turn them into sculpture
So I can express what I feel. the college men may laugh,
The farmers persecute me, but I do for myself. so should you.

Come look at berties brochures
Youll be enchanted, I am sure
The whole worlds in berties brochures:
All the wisdom, the smiles of dear friends

Through freakshow britain, through the eighties
Bertie works in labs, though his fathers aims still endure
Though only at night does he do his real work
Learning, writing his brochures...

For he still believes that everyones a poet
And that all he has to do is to set it down
And so transform the milkman,
The waitress and the gunman into immortal art!!

Now theyre laughing at berties brochures
Detectives with crowbars and skewers
They see things in berties brochures:
Their own hatred of all other races and their fear

Dont laugh at berties brochures
He would not if they were yours
So what if your enemy is there?
Berties an artist, so why should he care?
Its the north european peasant experience