LYRIC SHEETS / The Death of a Transit Van
Ankle-deep in dogged out fags
Lager cans and music mags
Half-chewed burgers, oily rags
Nasty things in plastic bags
Now a roadie sat and wept
Hadn't eaten, washed or slept
Having had the salvage man
Just refuse his Transit van
Ancient faithful shagmobile
Thirteen cwt. Six wheel
Off-white Transit, rusting floor
Home to bacilli and spore
Gonococci, spirochetes
Lurking in its well-mashed seats
Rusty strings and broken sticks
Scrawled cassettes saying 'Final Mix'
Tangled in a pair of drawers
Jamming up the sliding doors
Twenty years of heavy rock
Miles gone thrice around the clock
Engine coughed pathetically
Having failed its MOT
Then gave up and quietly died
Band and road crew stood and cried
Should a surgeon be out there
Here I offer up a prayer
When I die, save what you can
But bury my heart in a Transit van
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