Dry weed drifters, Good time seekers, Sea shell sifters, Pleasure combers, And the dead-pool looms over, Filled up with crabs and dead pouting, Enough to make any outing A potential tragedy. Lurking on beaches, Tragic potential, It teaches Us lessons in kitchens, And airplanes, On any motorway trip, Holidays and highstreets, Around blind turns at 4am, It stalks children, (Especially ones with red buckle up Shoes and bright plastic balls near roads) Then it films the ball rolling, (And the shoe on its own). It lives on farms, Round the corner from the grain silos, Under tractor wheels, It sleeps in hay barns, Under the heavy hay. When it gets hungry, it eats brake pads, And tyre treads, When it gets bored it plays with The hydraulic yaw dampers on Trans-Atlantic jets. It watches over babies in their cots, It whispers in the ears Of tempermental dogs, It shrouds mountain cliff tops in fog The potential tragedy. Guns are loaded with it, When they're "safely" put in drawers, Knives glisten with it, In pockets on football terraces. It loves to see motorbike wheels Sl-ow-ly turning round, And blood on the ground, And soldiers helmets lying around In the mud. It lights fires and brings floods, Sinks ships and floats blood clots to the brain, It lives to cause (potential) pain. The potential tragedy.