They Keep Killing Steed
‘Same old far-fetched tat,’
you remember your mother sneering
after watching something like that
New Avengers. ‘Crap’.
Except she didn’t swear back then
and slapped you for deploying it.
You’d hoarded covers of TV Times
with Purdey on them in that blue
tight, strappy, cross your heart dress,
put them to lively use,
a private Playtex late night line up -
and when you’d sneaked a view
or two of the actual show
it sent shivers down the spine.
Seemed so modern, worth cheering
a future where Steed’s prosecuting
his philosophy - persecuting
those bastards doing the looting,
putting the black, using shooters –
there was gnaws and cybernauts, too.
Still, they kept killing him in the end,
after two seasons, he was history,
last seen in Canada amongst mystery
like – why the fuck is he there?
Nowadays, no one cares
to use all the Motown tunes we lacked,
like Chichen Mac, Chicken,
Oh, Chicken Mac,
when are you coming back?
Because only some can cane it here
where the days of Pearly Spencer
are long gone, if something’s wrong,
then nobody’s letting on.
And I imagine you’d shoot to kill,
when they put up the electricity bills
one-more-time.
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