Don’t throw my shoes off and throw them in the lake

The pedals on my bike will hurt my feet, not riding barefoot again

Like I did in a past life, Buddlea bush looks at the big sky

Waiting for the absent butterflies

The Earth is dying, Trump and Boris say I am lying

South of heaven sounds better on a dusty record

GPS strands daft drivers in fords and sends them over cliffs to their peril

John Peel boots a ball at his brother, the little one runs bawling to Trader

Bike is unfixable, Kate dreams of sheep, I haven’t dreamt at all

Slipped up on the fags but they have now packed their bags