August the 20th: yesfolksit's another coldclammy day in england. a large crowd has gathered around the police station. everybody--everybody--wishes to have contact with a certain little ir

Riter within. not to discuss his worksthough the works are known to them; they've been published in the tabloid papers by the police under the heading "barbaric butcher's brochures".

They want to tear his very head from his bodyfor what it is alleged he did in the way of mortal damage to two soldiers in a nearby public lavatory. the night draws in. nobody would say a word

Himexcept a fool like me [(and his skin)].



In rainy ireland in the 50's

There outside a pink farmhouse door

A small bertieplaying at digging trenches

Asks"daddywhat's the blowtorch for? "

He said"the torch will cut the cars to turn them into sculpture

So I can express what I feel. the college men may laugh

The farmers persecute mebut I do for myself. so should you."



Come look at bertie's brochures

You'll be enchantedI am sure

The whole world's in bertie's brochures:

All the wisdomthe smiles of dear friends



Through freakshow britainthrough the eighties

Bertie works in labsthough his father's aims still endure

Though only at night does he do his real work

Learningwriting his brochures...



For he still believes that everyone's a poet

And that all he has to do is to set it down

And so transform the milkman

The waitress and the gunman into immortal art!!



Now they're laughing at bertie's brochures

Detectives with crowbars and skewers

They see things in bertie's brochures:

Their own hatred of all other races and their fear



Don't laugh at bertie's brochures

He would not if they were yours

So what if your enemy is there? 

Bertie's an artistso why should he care? 

It's the north european peasant experience