Future histories will tell us quite enough
Of maps and wars and all that scientific stuff
But what of this bearded angel, who can understand?
But for now let's call him Portobello Man
Distortly different from the colour be remains
No capes, no mandarins, no silver bells or chains
They lifted a stencil binder off its metal stand
And they found the ends of Portobello Man
They scoured the markets and the vintage clothing shops
They studied old photographs of where he might have stopped
They dug out there granddads albums buried in the sand
And they reconstructed Portobello Man
The popular theorists denounce him as a hoax
His right old musings, his music and his smokes
But then isn't freedom part of everybody's plan?
And it leads us all to Portobello Man
And it leads us all to Portobello Man