Sometimes on a Saturday night
I feel the fever rising
And want to chuck it all out
The car window as I’m driving
I would chuck in my job,
I’d throw in this game,
I would chuck in the towel,
throw myself down the drain.
I would tug on a thread
till it all came apart,
and I’d chuck in my wife,
though I’m still in her heart.
But before I start breaking my head
on problems I just can’t crack
I hear Peter is there at the door
with ten cans of beer in a pack.
Peter and I went through school
and both of us failed at it all
instead we both fell in love
with Escorbuto and the Pistols…
But those punks, they got it all wrong
though they said it so sharp and so terse
because, in the end, there was a future
which, if anything, turned out to be worse.
Leathers, mohicans, badges and studs,
we got rid of them one by one
and were left with just the one hoop
… to jump through- that’s the one.
That’s how we ended up trapped
on the merry-go-round getting sick
because now the anarchy that rules
is the form with a carrot and stick.
But all of us did not fall away,
Peter kept holding on fast.
The only thing he went through
was the bottom of a booze glass.
You see Peter decided to never
give up following that fashion,
since he has the best time of all
when he is mindlessly trashing.
You could say that in his case
it’s just a gesture to stay punky
since there’s not enough hair on his head
to make a mohican stay spunky.
Nor can he down in one
four litres at a go now
because the hangover lasts
two or three days more now.
But he talks of the times of
revenge matches of futbolín
and when we got together
to sing God Save the Queen.
The future has left him behind
so far out of the system, if you like,
that he flung himself against a wall
covered with grafitti on his bike.
I was already faded and jaded
so how was I going to show up
and tell that dickhead Peter
that he really should grow up?
I haven’t seen a pub close
nor danced to Should I Go,
nor thrown up on the road
since the day that Peter died.
You don’t need to be Flaubert
or Inspector Clouseau to see
that the one and only murderer
of Peter Punk… was me.
Dino Lanti, Cuentos Cruentos (Thule: Barcelona, 2008)
I have had a bit of fun playing around with the humorous verse of Dino Lanti. It is light, humorous verse each on with a sharp acid taste and some delightful witty drawings by Pere Ginard to go with the text.