The baggage grows pound per pound.
Each screech is a uniformed routine sound
Of every lie and rotton ploy unwound.
But I, the unburned, walk with a head of a greyhound
I alone can walk with limbs unbound.
Dry cleansed of the fire that surrounds
I've repented, my heart hold no doubts,
Now I clown around when I hang around
with the Underground.