A field of burnt out engines and charred frames,
Court summons on charges of affray,
The press snap pictures of his daughter,
The news loops a replay of him lunging at a camera;

Our king of circumstance still dreams,
The cupboard his step-father locked him in,
Chucked carelessly by the rim of his pants,
He dreams of silence and a place to hide;

The moneyʼs gone now- all nine million-
Sometimes he thinks it was a gift,
A reconciliation for the beatings and
Unyielding ache of his heart;

Back to a dustmanʼs early hours,
Bird calls like the click of camera shutters,
He minds the foul weight of circumstance,
And the words that lifted it for a moment;

Youʼve won.