Lining up the Wallbangers

Bargain-basement wallbangers have made their presence known to my internal organs, but they may have raided a few neurons instead of the wished-for effect.  Gossip in the street is that the bailiffs have doorstepped me, the building is condemned and my house has become an outpost of huggermuggers and inarticulate bafflement.  I'm blank as a page, coiled in a corner, letting the rumours exaggerate exponentially in triplicate. Play for time.  Raid my stash of courgettes and nan bread.

Then it happens.  They send in the social media crane fly - nothing more than a thumbnail insect, but with a loud message:  'What in John's name is a Weather Baby?'  Hope is plummeting like a fat McDonald by the side of Loch Tummel.  Desperation reworks the last verse.  Maybe reconsider the chord sequence over a filled pitta.

I heard a husky saxophone

Between the street-talk and the drone

Mugged by a teacher – I’m a runner with no shoes

Crowbarred the whining window welcome city blues