The cathode rays burn bright tonight.
We bathe in phosphorescent light,
Like whey-faced worshippers at prayer,
We sit, we sup, we sigh, we stare.
Our mother’s stopped misquoting Marx –
No “opiate”, no “masses’ fix” –
She gazes, chastened and serene,
As Robert Mitchum steals the scene.
We have no TV in the week,
So Saturday’s a Sabbath feast:
We gorge ourselves on starry light,
On minstrels painted black and white,
On Brucie’s banter, Beadle’s games,
On bright new faces seeking fame,
On Time Lords, Daleks, dancing girls,
On Ironside’s wheels, on Starsky’s curls…
This orb through which our heroes pass,
This miracle of light and glass,
This oracle of playground cool
Will keep us safe all week at school.