Lungs for Sale

Old Man sits by the side of the street in Brighton town,
He catches his breath now,
And we breathe 
and we see what we’ve done.
Young girl sits by the bus stop with an asthma inhaler,
If only, it was her boyfriend who took her breath away
And not the grey, grey smoke of another day in the City.

What have you done to me? Says the Woman.
Where were you, when I needed your help? Says the Old Man.

These are the lungs of the next generation, for sure
And yet the young ones can’t breathe round 'ere no more.

It’s awful quiet in the City now, 
Apart from people wearing masks
And in their eyes, they're scared to die,
but only for a few weeks,
This only lasts a few weeks, they say.

And the old man coughs and coughs his lot
Buried in a graveyard 
Rest in Peace
Rest in Shmog
Like the dogs in Wuhan
And there’s no reason
To kick the bucket 
Just becasue we fucked it 
up too soon.

I broke my mask
And sang for freedom
I sneezed in the breeze
But another Arab Spring was coming
And I had Western hay-fever,
And cabin fever,
And I heard the mutters 
Of the diseased splutters 
Of the deceased still holding the throats
Of Parliament
Still careered 'round the trachea
Of the future.
So quickly, I put my mask back on
And carried on along the sidewalk. 

Coronavirus kills, 
Smoking Kills
Foreign Policy kills babies
So stop blowing smoke on them.

The New Old Man sits by the side of the street in Brighton town
The year is 2080, he is sure he remembers a time before he needed a mask
To breathe
And what were trees, anyway?
But the sunset slips down the polythene grip
Of the silicone sky.
And no one has fear in their eyes now,
Just the reflection of concrete.