When I put on my Ramones tee-shirt,
with its presidential seal of rebellion,
I can almost smell the revolution
in the air.
I like to wear it everywhere:
down the match or shopping mall,
on the golf course, in the gym, or
where I sometimes sit and watch the
protest marches go past the window,
whilst sipping on my frappuccino.
All roads lead
to Ramones; you will see our breed
on every street, pushing strollers,
iPhoned jogging rock n’ rollers,
in cottoned nonconformity, a giant
army of tee-shirted mayhem makers
(once we’ve read the Sunday papers).
Hey ho, let’s go.