The next generation of dreamers 

will get to know quite enough 

about our devotion to shops 

and all that dank political stuff. 

 

But what will they make 

of the mohawked gang, 

the canal side Camdenites  

we called the last century clan. 

 

A scene that died  

long before it was dead, 

kept alive on expletive outfits 

in white and shock red.  

 

One day, someone shouted out, 

but no one shouted back, 

could be that was time, 

for the last century clan. 

 

Photos found down the back  

of the World Wide Web, 

some faded hand-drawn  

compilation cassettes, 

 

a “Help a Punk Get Drunk” sign  

with a one-pound demand, 

is all they could find  

to recreate the last century clan. 

 

Future cynics denigrate them  

as a theatrical joke, 

their piercings and make-up 

and their D.I.Y. clothes. 

 

But then, isn’t anarchy 

part of everybody’s plan? 

Didn't we all once belong  

to a last century clan?