There was a time Where a door could be empty, Just thin slats of colour That stroked at the paper-boy. With a Biro lid rattling On one miner's shoulder, We spent the short days Like fat Roman emperors. Ill-clad with gold. And the sweat off our backs. In one hand a meat, The other a finger I counted out zeros, And leftover pie lids, To a boy they called Lemon Whose hands were like glass. We used a letter opener To cut off his hair.