Never mind the bollocks here are the Sex Pistols
Rotten, Vicious, Jones and Cook with a tuneless racket
for a fucking bunch of cowboys.
Humped and twisted in splenetic rage
Rotten stalked the stage like Richard III,
spitting anarchy, no feelings, fascist regime.
That night everyone was arse and airs, including you and me.
Something was going down but what? The Sex Pistols
had shot their wad: that’s what. Last ever gig.
Rotten reverted to Lydon, Vicious untimely died, and you,
my peacock, feathered off leaving me with a dust sleeve:
Never mind the bollocks.
Joan Byrne
Winterland, San Francisco, 14 January 1978
.