I’m becoming weary of these festival girls,
Unnecessary Wellingtons and bleached blonde curls,
Came for the day to act like a celebrity,
Wearing aviators like girls from magazines,
Walking examples of the modern trends and scenes,
But though none of then ever really suited me,

And I look at this commercial-fest with dismay,
Americana wannabes ruin my day,
I walk past brand name tents towards the sponsored stage,
This band’s rock n’ roll but T.V. cameras are not,
As I fight with these celeb-spotters for a spot,
In this music hypocrisy I can’t help but rage!

All alone while my friends at back at the tent all get pissed,
Hundred quid a ticket, but don’t care what they missed,
Then shining through the dreary crowd I can see her,
She’s the only girl in the crowd that knows the song,
And the way she moves stops me as she sings along,
Wearing a tight fitting parker, hooded with fur,

She’s half skanking, half jiving,
Knows just what she’s reviving,
Hair cut, they way I like,
Everything is just right,
Mod target is on her back,
Badge with the union Jack,

And she catches me and gives me a nod,
And she just like me, she’s all on her tod,
I know its nothing, but we have a dance,
But the way she moves I don’t stand a chance,
Two modernist stars cross, It might be fate,
Just it happened, 29 too 42 years late,